


Outlast the Forests

by daphnerunning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Additional Warnings May Apply in Chapter Notes, Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Doriath, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Friends to Lovers, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slow Burn, The noncon is VERY brief and non-explicit, Truly Ludicrous Age Difference, Will warn on the chapter itself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29001576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Túrin arrives in Doriath with the snows. Beleg seeks him in the winters. Together, they never freeze.The Tale of Beleg and Túrin: a lay of love, healing, loss, and the seeking of that which must be found.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 257
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue: The Boys in the Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I'm in Turleg hell and you all get to suffer with me. 
> 
> This fic will be using a blended canon of Narn I Chîn Húrin, The Early Silmarillion, Túrin Son of Húrin & Glórund the Dragon, and the greater Lay of the Children of Húrin. It's mostly all the same but I'm pirating the gayest bits from all the versions. Feel free to read even if you only know the chapter from the published Silmarillion, I'll put in chapter notes to explain anything I think deviates strongly from it.

A child was crying in the woods.

Beleg’s feet left no prints upon the snow. He walked carefully, not wanting to disturb his quarry. A Marchwarden could find any quarry in the woods, and he had been following this particular trail for days. There were no trackers greater than Beleg, save perhaps Mablung, but Mablung was best called for a ferocious beast, who had grown too canny in Morgoth’s service and learned to cover its tracks. For finding lost children in the wake of war, there was none better than Beleg Cúthalion.

Through a small ravine he knew well, then a thicket, where a stag he knew kept his doe-mates, Beleg crept silently, not setting a single leaf to rustle in his wake. If any of the army were following, he would elude them a bit longer yet. It would not be Beleg the Strongbow of Doriath that led enemies to the lost children.

He heard sniffling, and quiet whispers, and emerged from the woods. Two lovely young faces peered up at him, startled. The boys were quite young, and well-dressed. If it had not been for the fineness of their cloth and the blood in the air, he would have thought them a pair of crofter’s children, who had wandered too far from home, and not been able to find their way home again.

“Peace, my young friends,” he said gently, and held out a hand, showing it held no weapon. “You must be hungry.”

“Yes,” said one of the boys. “Not anymore,” said the other.

Beleg took another step forward, but the boys shrank away. He paused, then reached up and levered himself easily onto the lower branch of a nearby tree, sitting with his legs dangling. “Shall I sing a song, of finding our way home?” he asked kindly. “Or tell you a story?” Part of being good at finding lost things was knowing how to not only track them down, but bring them safely back home again.

He saw the children exchange a look. “We want a story,” said one of them.

“And what stories do you like? Tales of battles, ancient and terrible?” He could tell of the First Battle of Beleriand, where Denethor had fallen on lonely Amon Ereb. There had been no sun nor moon yet, only brave dwarves and the elves of Ossiriand, falling the way immortals never should have. “Tales of laughter?” He could tell them one of Aegnor’s funny stories, usually about Finrod acting unwise in his youth in blessed Valinor, whose glory none of the Sindar save their King had ever seen, reflected in the eyes of Melian the Maia.

“Tales of love?” asked one of the boys, and the other nodded vigorously, hugging himself as if he were cold.

“Yes, sir. Tell us a tale of love, please, if you are no Enemy. My mother says that the Enemy’s creatures cannot love.”

Beleg sighed. “I am no enemy of yours, child.”

“Then, a tale?”

There was only one for him, after all.

“...All right,” he agreed, and settled onto his tree branch. “The tale is a short one in years, but it is long indeed in my memory, and in dearness to me. But you must promise not to interrupt needlessly. And when it is over, you must promise to come with me.”

“Will the enemy find us, if we do?”

“Never.” Beleg smiled at the child reassuringly. “Not even Morgoth Bauglir himself, and all his wolves, could find me in the woods, if I do not want to be seen.”

This seemed to pacify the children. They sat, looking up at him with too-wide eyes, and waited expectantly.

There was no help for it. So Beleg began.

“Once, in the Kingdom of Doriath, there was a particularly cruel winter, and everything was covered in snow...”


	2. The Maiden in the Trees

Túrin was not crying.

He was not crying, because he was a brave Man now, he must be, the lord of his people in exile, and he could not shame them. His mother would not wish for him to cry. Even if she were far away in Dor-Lómin, she would somehow know, if he brought shame to his father’s name.

The King of Doriath was...odd, in many ways. His gaze was distant and terrifying, as if it reflected some light that Túrin could not even imagine, and only saw the world around him at great need. The others said he grieved for his daughter, though she yet lived in another land. That made sense to Túrin. His father still might live somewhere, but Túrin grieved all the same.

His foot struck a rock, and he went down to one knee, scrubbing desperately at his face with one hand. He was surefooted enough back home, where High King Fingon’s archers rode often about in silver and white before everything had gone badly, and the ways were kept clear and tame for the House of Hador. But here in Doriath, the roots of the trees were gnarled and strange, and often poked through the ground beneath the snow. Elves never seemed to trip, on roots or stray rocks or anything else. Túrin felt he tripped upon everything, and heard the laughter of many in Menegroth when he did.

“Are you hurt?”

The voice was gentle, but Túrin started, his head whipping up. He saw the beautiful figure of a young lady--like Lalaith come to womanhood might have been, he thought, and tears ran anew down his cheeks for the sister he had lost, and the other that he might never meet.

The young lady was in a tree, of all things. She wore leggings and a tunic like most of the Doriathians, with silver-gold hair tumbling in ringlets around her face. Her eyes were wide, too, and her hands looked soft. “Are you hurt?” she asked again.

Túrin shook his head. “I--it’s only a rock, or something of the sort,” he muttered, standing and brushing the snow off. His ankle was twisted, but he grimaced, and ignored it. “Did I disturb you? I’m sorry.”

“The woods are not mine,” the lady said, and lowered herself from her branch, her bare feet resting lightly upon the snow. “I was counting flowers.”

“Counting...flowers?”

“A flower-counting song.”

That sounded a little strange, but better to think about than his own thoughts. “I want to learn it, please?”

She laughed in delight, clapping her hands together. “Come with me, then! Nellas will teach you the names of all the flowers in the forest, if you wish to hear them.”

“Who would not wish that?” Túrin asked, and felt a smile tugging at his lips.

He stayed beside her, moving from branch to branch, for hours, until the sun sank low in the sky. Finally, he sighed, and said, “I must return to the city, Lady Nellas, much as I am loathe to do so.”

“Loathe? Why?” she asked, concerned.

“I...it isn’t that I’m ungrateful to be here,” he said doubtfully, and looked over his shoulder, as if one of the ministers or whatever they were would appear even now. “It’s only that there are some who think the King should not have taken a human as foster-son. Do you know of an elf-man called Beleg?”

“I know of him,” she told him, frowning. “Why?”

“He was very kind to me,” Túrin explained. “I wished to thank him.” He smiled up at her, and admitted shyly, “I think perhaps it is that I am uncomfortable around elves who are so high in standing. Around the ministers and councilors and the King and Queen, I can hardly make myself speak. But with you, and the elf called Beleg, I was unafraid.”

“I am glad you are not afraid,” Nellas said, smiling. “You may come and visit me whenever you like, and we might walk in the woods.”

Túrin nodded. “I should like that. I thank you, my lady. But--I have not seen Beleg since my arrival in Menegroth, when he parted with my servants and me. Do you know if perhaps the King has sent him away on an errand?”

She giggled, and hid her mouth with her hand. “You say you are tongue-tied around the high and mighty, but you call Beleg Cúthalion a friend?”

“I think so. For my part,” Túrin said with a shrug. “I think he might be a woodsman of some sort. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Not in Menegroth,” she said, and his heart sank, but she went on, “for he is the Captain of all those who patrol Doriath’s wide forests, from the Neldoreth to the river Aros in the Forest of Region, from the Arthorien to Brethil, and his home is in Dimbar, where the orcs fear to venture.”

“The orcs, fear?” Túrin asked, stunned.

“They fear great Belthronding his bow,” Nellas said, nodding. “And the valor of the one who wields it. He has long defended Eglador, and walks in honor through the forest.”

Túrin frowned, troubled. “He did not seem so haughty,” he said, and hugged his arms around himself. “This is foul news you bring me.”

“Is it? Why so? You have the friendship of a great lord.”

“But if he were no great lord, only the fair youth he seemed, he might...come and walk with me sometimes,” Túrin finished lamely, and tears stung his eyes again. “For he was very kind, and I wished to see him again. Is he never in Menegroth?”

Nellas’s hand was soft upon his head, stroking through his hair. “Do not weep, child of Man,” she murmured. “The Marchwarden’s boots have touched every leaf and bough of these great forests. It is said that if you imitate the call of a grouse, one of their number will come to you, to assist in any need.”

“Do you see him, when you walk, lady?”

“Sometimes,” Nellas said, looking up into the trees. “But he does not see me, usually.”

Túrin sniffled, and wiped his face upon his sleeve. “If you see him again, will you tell him that Túrin, son of Húrin, would see him in Menegroth?”

“I will,” she promised, and kissed his brow.

For weeks, any time he heard the call of a grouse at the edge of the woods, Túrin tried to emulate it, with voice or whistle. He must not have been doing it right, for no elf ever came to that sound, though sometimes he was able to find Nellas, and learn a few more words of the flowers from her.

Then one day, as Yule approached, Gethron came to his room, brisk and businesslike. “You’re to make up a pack, Lord Túrin,” he said, and busied himself with folding Túrin’s spare leggings and shirts, stuffing them into a large rucksack. “Fetch your waterskin, and your warmest cloak.”

“Why?” Túrin asked, suddenly nervous. “Is the King sending me away? What have I done wrong? I didn’t push Largon!” The elf-boy had been taunting him, and Túrin _would_ have pushed him, but Largon had pretended to fall before he could, and had gone bawling to his mother that the _horrible rough Man-child_ had done violence to him, as was the way of humans.

“Just put on your boots,” Gethron said wearily. “No time for one of your moods today. There is a person of importance who has need of you.”

Túrin washed his face hurriedly, and bound his hair back in a tie. He followed his guardian out into the halls, then to the Great Hall of Thingol, where his foster-father stood.

Thingol was hugely tall and thin, and seemed to cast a shadow into any room just by standing in it. Túrin stayed far enough back that he could look up, and hastily bowed. “You sent for me?” he asked, and saw one of Thingol’s counselors bristle, so he must have said _something_ wrong, though he didn’t know what.

Thingol nodded at him. Túrin had never seen him smile. “Túrin, you are here as my ward, and you need do nothing but study and learn,” the King said, sounding severe in a way that his father never had. “But one who serves me has asked leave to teach you something of the woods, of hunting and tracking. The winter has come, so there will be few orcs, but even the forests of Doriath are not without peril. Would you go?”

Túrin frowned, considering. It was very cold in the woods, now that snow lay thickly about. But being able to leave Menegroth, even for something dangerous and uncomfortable, sounded a worthy pursuit, and more likely to help him make a name for himself.

Something caught his eye, and he turned to see the elf waiting on the other side of Thingol. It was Beleg, he saw with relief and delight, looking just as he had in the woods that first day, when Gethron and Grithnir had been near starvation, and they had all been terribly weary. Beleg had seemed like a vision from the old tales then, strong and beautiful, and seemed no less so now.

Túrin’s heart was glad, and he faced Thingol with a light in his eyes. “I would go with Beleg, and gladly!”

“Your Majesty,” muttered an elf from behind Thingol--one of his ministers. Túrin looked curiously to see what the elf would say, but he did not seem to have anything else, only that address.

“That is well,” Thingol said, apparently not listening to the counselor. “See that you pay close attention. There is none so fierce against the enemy as he, save perhaps Mablung.”

“Perhaps,” Beleg said with a smile, and Túrin saw the Captain of the Guards shift, “accidentally” shoving the butt of his spear against Beleg’s foot.

“I can really come with you?” Túrin asked, hope kindling in his breast. “For how long?”

The minister murmured something. Beleg ignored him, and held out a hand. “For a few days, I think. Let’s see how you like the wild woods.”

“I will like it fine,” Túrin announced, and took his hand.


	3. A Strategy in the Marches

The knife went astray.

Túrin hissed out a curse in Taliska, so black and angry that Beleg could not help a smile from twitching at his lips. “Where did you learn to speak like that?” he asked, and held out a hand, palm-up. “Let me see the damage.”

The light was low in the lodge, one of the smaller ones tucked into a beech grove at the edge of Dimbar. Tallow lamps burned steadily, though they quavered now and again with the wind’s bite, no matter how well-crafted the lodge’s walls, the timbers carefully weatherstripped with linen and roving to keep away the chill in the long winter months.

Túrin held out the cup he’d been carving, his mouth twisted in a dour expression that Beleg was tempted to call a _pout_ , if the son of Men would not have been so offended by the statement. Sure enough, Túrin had once again struck too strong and too deeply, and had nocked a piece loose that could not be repaired.

“This is ruined,” he said, as kindly as he could, while Túrin’s black brows drew together unhappily. “No matter, we will make another.”

“Why can it not be fixed?” Túrin demanded, and took the cup back roughly, tossing it into the fire, as if he were unable to look at his own mistakes a moment longer. “I don’t want to do any more _crafting_ , I am not some lame servitor. Teach me more of the sword, instead.”

Beleg raised an eyebrow. “You are not weary? You’ve practiced nothing but your strikes for hours, and the winds are bitingly cold. Even one of my kindred would be tired of such by now.”

Túrin’s dark eyes blazed as if he had the anger of an elf himself, who had kept quiet for hundreds of years some truth that should have been spoken. “I dislike making things. I am no cripple.”

“Twice now you have spoken of craft as something that can only be done by those who can do nothing else,” Beleg remarked mildly. He sat in front of the fire, his knife carefully turning between his skilled hands, hollowing out the bowl of a small pipe, with a little wren carved into the side. “In Doriath, the making of things, both useful and beautiful, is a trade of high honor.”

“Then let the craftsmen have their high honors. Do you think that is my lot?” Túrin demanded, with all the dignity of the prince he was no longer, mighty as his station as Thingol’s foster son made him.

“I think that a mighty warrior, a captain that is the hope of Elves and Men in the dark days to come, will still have need of cups,” Beleg answered mildly. “Unless you plan to slay or threaten craftsmen who create the things you wish for, and make them your own in that fashion.”

“Will they not simply give me what I wish? Is it not my due?” Túrin looked older than twelve, but he often sounded younger, never quite certain _why_ something was unfair, _what_ could be done about it, and _how_ he should seek to change it.

Beleg shrugged, and turned his knife, ever-careful. “When you are grown, you may wish to have gifts that come from love, not from due. There are fierce enemies in the world, and you will want friends who are equally fierce.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“For I will always have Beleg Cúthalion, strongest of all, at my side, will I not?”

Beleg’s knife slipped, just the tiniest bit, so that the point dug into the bowl at the bottom. A warmth, unlooked-for and unexpected, rose in him at the idea that his friendship was not only expected, but compulsory, through the long winters of the world in Morgoth’s growing shadow. He fumbled for something to say, taken off-guard by this too-quick, too-quiet child who spent little time in pursuits Beleg thought worthy, but was so intent in all of his words and deeds. “As long as you stand against the Shadow,” he finally said, and bent his fine knife to the task of rectifying his mistake, though there would always be a tiny nick in the wood, “you will ever have my company, for that is where I have stood for many lifetimes of Men, and before.”

“You stood against the Shadow at the Fifth Battle, did you not?” Túrin’s eyes gleamed. “My father came never back from there, though he was very valiant.”

“I did. Many valiant Men and Elves and Dwarves came never back from that dread plain. Your father was in the very vanguard of King Fingon and King Turgon himself, they say.”

“They say? Did you not see him?”

“I saw him, young Thalion,” Beleg said, with a small smile. “He was ever at the front, in the first days. Mablung said to me that it seemed he was truly a valiant lord, and could have been taken for one of our people. We heard him afar, at the end, crying that day would come again, but by then our party was far sundered. The battle was very big,” Beleg told him, and for a moment, could smell nothing but blood and dust, could hear nothing but the clash of swords and the screams of the faithful. _“Courage, brother,”_ he’d heard, but there was no time to trade grips with Mablung, not when his bow must fire, and fire, because the orcs were endless, and even his strength must give out at some point.

“My father was summoned with the banners of the House of Hador,” Túrin said, and peered into Beleg’s face, in a way that would have been deeply intrusive if he had been an elfling of the same age (or twice that, or four times, as fast as Men seemed to grow). “But the banners of Doriath were not called, were they? Why did you go, Beleg?”

Beleg set his knife and the pipe aside. The fire popped and crackled, burning the last of the green wood, giving them heat and light, but stinging the eyes of the unwary with smoke. Outside, the wind howled, promising a long and bitter night, but an easy morning, if he read the signs correctly. The orcs would not move in such deep snow as they would have, and he would have a few days of ease and peace, though after which they would need to return to Menegroth to reprovision.

Túrin, at least, would need to return. There was little that Beleg needed to survive that he could not find or make for himself in the wilds, but Túrin was growing fast, and had great need of clothing to fit his ever-changing stature. Beleg was more than skilled with a needle, but even he could not produce cloth from nothing. So they would return to Menegroth, and for a time, he would part with the child, and return to his ward-marches and his friends.

There was no reason for the thought to make him quite so lonely.

Túrin had asked him a question. Despite his obvious attempt at patience, the boy was growing annoyed with waiting, shifting from foot to foot, still peering intently into Beleg’s face. Beleg repressed the urge to laugh--it never ended well, laughing at Túrin, no matter how innocently the gesture was meant--and instead said, “Because I was unwilling to have no part in the great deeds that would be done that day.”

“That is a good answer,” Túrin replied doubtfully. “Is it the one you gave to King Thingol?”

“It is.”

“And he did not deny you?”

“I told him I would go, whether he willed it or no. He decided he willed it.”

“And what is the answer you would give to a friend, who wished to know the truth of your heart?”

Again, Beleg felt himself taken aback, but he rallied. “I would tell my friend that he must come with me to a true battle sometime.”

Túrin’s eyes blazed. “Why do you think this friend has seen nothing of war?”

“Because anyone who has seen a true battle, has seen the forces of the Enemy arrayed against a host that is good and fair and just, would either have no reason to ask, or would be no true friend to me,” Beleg said softly, and stood, before Túrin could ask any more questions. “Fine, fetch your sword. It will do us little harm to practice a bit more, while the fire burns low.”

It was three days before the snows cleared enough for them to make their way back to Menegroth. Beleg waited until nightfall before venturing out to collect more wood each night; specifically, he waited until Túrin was asleep, or the young Man would insist upon coming with him, and Beleg misgave leaving tracks in snow for any enemy to follow. Túrin was always hot for battle, but still quite young, and had shown little interest in plotting strategy and tactics. Once, Beleg had set out a series of game tokens for the two of them upon the floor, and arrayed them into the forces of Hithlum and the Union of Maedhros, and another set for the Enemy forces.

 _“What would you have done?”_ he had asked, prepared for a long and drawn-out conflict. _“The enemy has come with hidden swords, and in dun raiment, to hide from the sun. It is dawn; where will you strike?”_

 _“Here,”_ Túrin had said, and plucked up the token that represented Maedhros Fëanorian from the board, then simply gave the Pillow of Angband a hefty whack, sending it back from the battle to slump against the coal scuttle. _“A hard enough strike should do it.”_

 _“Túrin, lad,”_ he’d said, shaking his head, _“a strike like that can come only from the Valar, and not from any elf-lord or Man.”_

 _“Then we will have to be stronger,”_ Turin had responded, and set about the task of demolishing the loaf of bread that had been standing in for Glaurung the Dread Wyrm.

“Come,” Beleg said, opening the door to the white world of the north-marches, drawing his grey cloak tightly around his head and shoulders. Túrin had asked for a Marchwarden cloak of his own, and the tailors back in Menegroth should be finished with the thing by now. “Shall we set off?”

The way was long, which Beleg enjoyed. Cozy days in the lodges were one thing, but he was a creature of movement, of the hunt, and staying in one place for too long began to chafe at him. Even the wide forests of Doriath felt too small, sometimes, for how his feet longed to wander. At least his King understood, and did not begrudge him the chase of any orc patrol, no matter how far abroad they eluded him.

Each time he traveled with Turin in the winter, he had to remind himself not to tense and stiffen whenever he heard the crackle and crunch of the young Man’s feet sinking through the snow. _It is no orc come upon you unawares_ , he told himself firmly. _It is your friend, and he cannot walk upon the snow as you do._

“How do you do it?” Túrin demanded, and Beleg saw that he was setting his feet as carefully down as possible, trying to make his footprints as light as Beleg’s. “You _do_ weigh something, I’ve felt it when we’re sparring. So there must be a way.”

“It’s...” Beleg gestured helplessly. “I’m sorry, Túrin. It’s simply one of the things that comes without knowledge to one of my kin, that one of yours can never learn.”

“Maybe none of mine have tried hard enough yet,” Túrin said stubbornly, and would not be dissuaded, and continued different sorts of increasingly strange-looking walks through the entire day.

On the second day, Beleg decided to make a lesson of it. “See the low-hanging branches there?” he pointed out, and ran his fingertips over the tree, seeking for the loosest branches, the ones that it could most afford to lose. He gently twisted the loose branches off. “This way, the tree can spend her energy on surviving the winter,” he explained, and showed Túrin how to fletch the branches into flat pads to wear on the bottoms of his shoes, to confuse pursuit. “You can also wrap cloths about your boots to make it look as if you’re an orc, rather than a Man.”

“Why would I want to look like an orc?” Túrin asked, obviously offended.

“To hide from Orcs,” Beleg said patiently, and fashioned a rig of branches, then tied them to Túrin’s belt, so they would drag behind him as he walked. “Try to use only branches that have fallen, or are close to falling off. There is no reason to make enemies of the trees, who want only to be your friends.”

“I don’t have many friends.”

“All the more reason not to throw away the ones you have.” A sound pricked his ears, and he put a hand on the nape of Túrin’s neck, holding his other finger to his lips.

Túrin fell silent immediately, and started scanning the horizon, his eyes narrowed.

Quietly, Beleg drew his bow, and set an arrow to the string. Túrin carefully worked his sword out of his sheath without making a sound, a motion that made far less noise than Beleg would have expected. Beleg crept through the wood, eyes darting from side to side, creeping closer to the ravine at the edge of the beech grove.

“Beleg!”

The cry was sharp, and Beleg didn’t think. He threw himself down into the snow, turning as he went, bringing up the bow, sighting on the vague shape, and loosing all at once. His string twanged before the black arrow hit where he’d been standing, and he saw the orc grunt, then fall, his own arrow buried in its neck.

Túrin came running to his side, blade in hand, and Beleg leapt to his feet, both of them giving chase. Túrin cursed at the branches strapped to him in Taliska, making Beleg’s mouth twitch, but he did not fall behind.

At the top of the hill, he peered over, and sucked in a low breath. A river of black snaked through the hills beneath Dimbar, at least two dozen orcs poisoning the land as they went, crashing through the snow where it was shallow, driven on by the whip of their master-captain.

“What do we do?” Túrin’s voice was a whisper, but Beleg heard him easily. “Marchwarden Ialladis is in the lodge at Amon Obel, isn’t she? That’s two days’ walk from here.”

It was half a day’s run for Beleg, but he did not mention that. Túrin’s legs were still coltish and awkward; he would get faster with time. “They’ll make it to the Sirion within an hour,” he murmured in return, and rested a hand on Túrin’s shoulder. “They would befoul the water. We mustn’t let them. Dimbar must be kept safe.”

Túrin sucked in a breath. He looked down at the orcs, up at Beleg, and gulped. Then he formed up his shoulders, and nodded. “Just like the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, right? You had to go, even if the world of the living could not prevail?”

Blood and dust in his nose. Screams and the clash of swords in his ears. _“Courage, brother.”_

“No,” he said, and pulled his spare quiver from his back, handing it to Túrin. “Because as long as we fight the Shadow, the world of the living may yet prevail. Day shall yet come again, Túrin.”

Túrin’s eyes were wide, but there was something breathless and eager in his eyes. “I won’t fail you,” he swore, and pulled a few arrows out of the quiver, passing the first one over.

“Keep low, and run when I tell you,” Beleg instructed.

“But I won’t leave you.”

“If I bid you to run, I’ll be with you,” Beleg promised, and ignored the warmth that flowed through him at Túrin’s staunch support. “But you must listen. Am I not your Captain, or did you not wish to be a Marchwarden?”

Túrin had been most enthusiastic about the prospect before, and seemed no less so now. “Might I not keep my blade to hand?” he asked hopefully. “Should there be any sentries?”

“Indeed, you must,” Beleg said, and took the first arrow from him, sighting on the master-captain, then loosing, the arrow driving through the creature’s eye and putting an end to the sound of the whip. “And you must watch behind us, for my ears are full of the screams of orcs.”

The work was brutal, and not quick. Thrice the orcs essayed up the ravine’s wall, and Túrin grabbed his stout sword, and split their bellies. Once, a party splintered off and came up behind them, and Túrin proved brave-hearted there as well, and did not flinch from the butchery.

All told, the battle took no more than twenty minutes. It felt like far longer, and Túrin was panting for breath by the time the last orc fell with an arrow in his eye. His sword was chipped and rolled, and dripped with black blood. They were not the first orcs Túrin had killed, but it was the first time it had been just the two of them dealing with anything more than an escaped single orc or advance scout, with no backup.

Túrin wiped his sword on the grass, then looked up at Beleg, his face shining in a way Beleg had never seen before. “I would have gone with you, to the Anfauglith,” he said, and his voice did not tremble.

 _I know_ , Beleg nearly said. But Túrin was not his brother in arms, not a promising young Marchwarden, despite his insistence. He was a lofty prince of a fallen house, the King’s foster son, and an heir to the lines of Bëor, Haleth, and Hador all. Whatever he might be, he was not Beleg’s to keep by him always in the north-marches. “Help me gather my arrows,” he said instead, “and let’s away to Menegroth. I’ll make certain your foster father knows of your bravery this day.”

“And of yours!”

“It is no bravery to do my duty,” Beleg informed him, and walked over to a fallen orc, wrenching the arrow free, then tossing the body on top of another, starting a pile that he would send some of his wardens back to burn. “And Dimbar is mine to protect.”

“How long have you protected it?” Túrin queried, fetching arrows with a grunt of effort, applying all his young muscles to drag one of the foul creatures into the small pile.

“Since it was called Dimbar, and before.”

“How long before?”

“I know not.”

Túrin looked at him as if this simply did not make sense, and he was being quite foolish. “How can you not know? How old were you when you came? And how old are you now? We shall find the difference.”

Beleg laughed. “We did not measure time, back then, for it was ere the Moon ever chased the Sun across the sky. Long, long before that, I first came to these forests, with my people.”

Túrin looked skeptical. “I think the Elves have always been here,” he said, as if this should be the end of the conversation, and Beleg should apologize and admit he had lied. “For how could there be a forest without the Eldar inside it?”

“Nevertheless, I came,” Beleg told him, and continued to pile the corpses. “For I have walked these lands longer even than the Shadow has marred them. I am as ancient as the stars. I lived long in the mountains, before I learned the beauty of the forest.”

Still, Túrin looked suspicious. “I think you had best stay in the forest,” he declared. “For that is where you are best suited.”

“I agree. And long have I done so. But if need and duty drive me to the mountains again, then to the mountains I will go.”

“For your King?”

Beleg hesitated, then turned back towards Menegroth, beckoning Túrin along with him “Perhaps, for my King. Perhaps for another sort of duty. I have been called to great battles many times.”

“And do you love fighting, as I do?”

Beleg had never heard Túrin speak so many words in one day. It was as if he were a quite different child entirely. He could not imagine explaining to Mablung, Ialladis, or Oropher about Túrin the Curious, who asked questions faster than Beleg fired arrows, when they were so accustomed to Túrin the Taciturn, or more often, Túrin the Sullen. “I do not,” he admitted. “And if the world were at peace, I should be happy.”

“But useless.”

“I have other skills. Perhaps they would flourish, if there were no war.”

“Will there not always be war, as long as there is a Shadow?”

Beleg was quiet for a moment, thinking through his response as they walked. Túrin left off trying to walk like an elf, crunching through the snow without regret. “There was a time before the Shadow,” Beleg finally said. “And there will be a time after. If one such as you is holding the sword, perhaps it will pierce even Morgoth Bauglir.”

“And then Doriath will have all three Silmarils,” Túrin said.

“Perhaps don’t speak that so loud,” Beleg said with a laugh. “Else the Sons of Fëanor will descend upon Doriath and slay us all!”

“How could they, if they had to come through Dimbar, where the fiercest Marchwarden protects it?” Túrin gave him a rare, fierce smile, and for a moment, he could have been of the Noldor, tall and clean-limbed and dark-haired, with such piercing dark eyes and intensity of expression.

 _But not a Noldo_ , he reminded himself, and began to hum a tune of mountains and valiant deeds, hearing Túrin take it up as well. _Only the Doom of Men is upon this one, and that is bitter enough._


	4. The Festival in the Caves

Túrin considered, very strongly, whether he might throw a fit.

“But _why_ must I return to Menegroth?” he demanded, for he was demanding, and not whining, though perhaps he did stomp his foot, just a little bit. He was in Beleg’s lodge at the edge of Nan Dungortheb, and Beleg was packing his things. “Am I not helpful? Did I not kill that wolf that would have snuck up on you?”

“You are, and you did,” Beleg said patiently, folding Túrin’s bedroll for the night they would spend upon the road. “And yet, you must return, for I told King Thingol that I would have you home within a week.”

 _But this is my home_ , Túrin wanted to say. No, Beleg would laugh at him. Besides, this was only one of many lodges, tucked into the north-marches of Doriath, with little more than the bare essentials, just a place that Beleg or his Marchwardens could go to shelter from the cold and the enemies. Túrin spent perhaps six weeks in them per year, all together, and yet...

“Why do you wear those boots?” he said, his face a storm as he strove not to cry. Returning to Menegroth for a few weeks would not kill him. He might hate it, might feel alone and friendless and awkward in the cave city, but he would be allowed to come to the forests again soon, if he were well-behaved. “Surely it is more important not to be seen, in the forest.”

“Only if one is a very clumsy hunter.” Beleg smiled at him, and gestured for Túrin to turn around, which he did. “I’ll braid your hair before we go, hm? Then you’ll return to the King’s side looking like a proper princeling.”

“Fine,” Túrin said, grumpy. At least Beleg never tugged on his hair like Túrin’s mother always had. He was gentle, and his hands felt good. It was relaxing, and he found himself slowly letting go of his anger. “They’re sort of ugly boots.”

“Oh, yes,” Beleg said cheerfully, his fingers moving without tugging through the long dark strands. “And you can see them coming from quite a distance, can’t you?”

Túrin shrugged.

“A very long time ago, I was wandering through these woods, and speaking with some of my favorite trees. There was a birch with beetles she wanted me to tend, if I remember correctly, and she had asked me to come and see her when they were gone. So I went through the wood, making my merry way--when suddenly, I was brought low by an arrow.”

“Orcs?”

“Nay. Mablung of the Heavy Hand, the very same as captains King Thingol’s guards in Menegroth.”

“He _shot_ you?” Túrin asked, aghast.

“Aye, for he thought I was a deer, creeping through the forest unseen. Or so he claimed. From then on, I’ve worn something brightly-colored at all times.”

“Ah, so other hunters will see you?”

“I think he saw me just fine. I wear it so he cannot pretend he didn’t.”

Túrin’s eyes widened. “You think he shot you on purpose?”

“We were quite young,” Beleg said, and sounded amused. “The arrow struck the edge of my shoulder, and nothing worse. If he _did_ try to shoot me, he hardly meant to kill me.”

“But why would he want to shoot you?” Túrin considered whether he might challenge Mablung to a duel, perhaps, when he was back in Menegroth.

“It was a very long time ago, and he thought I was grown too close to the elf-maiden he wished to court.”

“Mablung has a wife?”

“That he does. Can you not tell?”

“No. Elves can?”

“Aye, just by looking into each others’ eyes, or hearing them speak.”

Túrin had never seen a maiden around Mablung, but then, he had never seen Mablung out of uniform, away from his duties. “What is she like?”

Beleg paused, drawing another strand of hair into the braid. “Dark-haired, and very fleet of foot. She loved to sing, and used to bake waybread with the Queen. She was one of Melian’s handmaidens, and enjoyed riddles over all things.”

Túrin listened, and heard the words, and his own heart hurt. “She is dead, then?”

“Yes, she is.”

“And this was long ago?”

“Aye, for most elves wed soon after reaching adulthood.”

“ _You’re_ an adult.”

“I have been accused of that before, aye.”

“But you have no wife.”

“No. I never married.”

“That seems wise,” Túrin said seriously. Every girl he met in Doriath was an elf, but he still didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

Beleg tied off his braids, the delicate and fussy strands that Túrin liked running his hands over, whenever Beleg did it for him. It made him feel as if he were truly as fancy as the elven prince Thingol called him, even if some of the others in Menegroth were less kind about it.

Nervousness twisted in his stomach. He was not a creature of caves, he thought. Forests were better, mountains were quite nice, but to be underground made him feel trapped.

On their long walk back towards the Thousand Caves, Túrin considered injuring himself, just to force Beleg to tend to him in the woods long enough for him to get well. But being caught was its own issue, and Túrin thought he would not live through the embarrassment.

So instead, he asked, when they were within sight of the city, “Will you come for Y--for Midwinter?” They did not call it _Yule_ in Menegroth, he’d learned, and the manner of celebrating was somewhat strange, but it was still a _festival_ , and Túrin liked it very much.

“Midwinter in Menegroth?” Beleg asked, and for a moment, the look of distaste and avoidance was so plain on his face that Túrin could read it as easily as if it were in a mirror. Could it be? That kind, strong, capable Beleg, who had friends and laughter and skill in every corner of the forests, who was far more competent than anyone Túrin had ever known, also had trouble dealing with people sometimes?

“I’ll keep you company,” Túrin blurted out. “So you don’t have to speak to anyone you don’t think is being honest. And you can avoid having to talk to people you don’t like. And you can have an excuse to leave when everything is too much.”

Something unreadable flickered over Beleg’s face. He put a hand on Túrin’s shoulder, squeezed it gently, and said, “All right.”

~

Túrin spent the week before Midwinter in the library of Menegroth, researching the traditions they would be celebrating. He had come after the holiday in his ninth year, spent the tenth in his room overwhelmed by people, missed the eleventh in Beleg’s lodges without realizing it, and made an effort to enjoy the twelfth. This, his thirteenth Midwinter, he was determined to enjoy.

Most of Menegroth’s texts were written on thick, pressed paper, made from plant refuse from the kitchens and looms; hard stems, ragged ends of linen, inedible portions of plants, even bits of old paper that had been thrown out, soaked in the solution to dissolve, and strained onto sheets to dry. It was very different to write on than the vellum he’d learned on back home, he found during his lessons, and the Cirth used in older writings was often difficult for him to make out.

Some of their writings, though, were etched onto what looked like large flat leaves of silver and gold, with the writing as fine penmanship, though it must have been painstakingly engraved. It was upon one of those that he found the list of Midwinter traditions, and set himself studiously to learning what would be happening.

“So, they let the Child of Man touch any treasures he wants, though well he is known for breaking what he seeks, hmm?”

Túrin’s spine stiffened. He knew that voice. His heart started thudding faster against his ribcage, a swell of nausea creeping through him. His body felt as if it were too hot, and the walls of the library closed in around him, warning him that there was no escape unless he wanted to leave with his task unfinished.

 _Don’t react,_ he told himself, for nothing he said ever made Lord Saeros go away. He had tried mentioning the counselor’s taunts and jeers to his foster-father once, but Thingol had only frowned, and said, _“That sounds little like my knowledge of him. Perhaps you misunderstand his intent, for you are not an elf, and he is accustomed to speaking only to others of his own kind.”_

Saeros’s fingers plucked up the leaf he was studying, pulling it away from him. “I’m surprised your eyes can see script this small, lordling. Didn’t you have difficulty with the archery targets only half an ell away? Let me find you something a bit easier to read.”

A book hit the table in front of him. The letters were large and bright--a child’s first primer, such as Túrin had studied when he was no more than a babe, full of huge illustrations and easy-to-pronounce words. Saeros had caught him looking at it when he had been in the city less than a month, desperate to find some easy Sindarin that he _could_ read, and had often mocked him for it since.

“I thank you,” Túrin said tonelessly, but his eyes were following the silver leaf in the counselor’s hand.

Saeros glared at him, as though this, too, were not enough politeness to return uncivility with. Túrin felt rather as if he was going to throw up. He’d done so before, when Saeros had refused to leave him alone, and would not respond to any attempt at politeness with other than haughty words.

“Take care you do not cover it with grease and crumbs. Your kinsman Beren was little better than a beast, and neither are you,” Saeros said, then smiled as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds, dropping the leaf in front of Túrin with a loud clatter.

The counselor’s face fell in apparent dismay, and he plucked up the leaf again. “Túrin, lad, this is no shiny bauble! These works are important, a work of art! There, now, I’m certain you didn’t mean to do harm, but you must look, it is dented.”

“But I--“

“What’s gone on? What’s amiss?” asked another counselor, one Túrin recognized as Olthadaer. “Aí, is that the Midwinter Festival leaf? Eithrost spent nigh on a month transcribing it.”

“Certainly the boy could not help himself,” Saeros said, and if his voice was regretful, there was malice sparkling in his dark eyes.

“I didn’t drop it,” Túrin said, holding back his tears by squeezing his hands into fists beneath the table. Surely, if he were punished for this, he could simply tell the truth--

 _And who would believe you?_ he thought hopelessly. For he _was_ known for dropping things unawares, partly because he strove hard at all he did, partly because he could not be as graceful as an elf and was therefore always clumsy by comparison. Partly, also, because Saeros and his friends had often endeavored to trip or misguide him in the halls, when he was caught unawares and alone. It had grown worse and worse since Gethron had departed, and grew worse still with every favor the King showed him.

For it was great favor, he was told, over and over, that Thingol sent messengers, and once a year he had news of his mother and sister in Dor-Lómin.

“What was that, Man-child?” Saeros asked, his face schooled to concerned interest. “Speak up, say clearly what you meant.”

Nothing was worse than being commanded to speak, to those who disliked him, on command. Túrin fought to keep the tears down, his fingernails digging little crescent moons into the palms of his hands. He bent, silent, over the leaves, trying to make the Cirth turn into words in his mind when all he could hear was the panicked thumping of his own heart.

“Have no fear,” Saeros told Olthadaer, still solicitous. “I’m certain the boy will be careful not to ruin priceless artifacts _again_. Take care not to drop anything else, Húrin’s son. Twice in one day would be difficult to forgive for anyone, even if he is the King’s charity project.”

“Should he really be left alone with such magnificent items?” Olthadaer fretted, as though Túrin were an especially foul beast in Thingol’s menagerie, who had decided to make the dining table his home. “Perhaps a guardian should be set.”

“Not to worry, my friend. For surely, it will become known most expediently, if any harm should come to such things, who is to blame. Now, tell me of the new dance you’ve prepared, which harp shall I bring? I have the Greatharp, if you have need of such range.”

They left arm in arm, leaving Túrin with a stone in the pit of his stomach and tears threatening to spill from his eyes. No, he could not cry here, it was too far from his room, and anyone might spy him. He mastered himself with sheer force of will, biting down the sudden loneliness.

 _Midwinter is only a few days away_ , he told himself, and when he was composed, carefully set all his materials back into their proper place. Then he fled the city, running to the snow-covered woods, and called for gentle Nellas, who never made him feel clumsy and stupid and cruel.

She came at once as though she had been waiting, but when he begged her to come into Menegroth with him, refused, with a terror of stone ceilings that Túrin rather thought he shared. So he stayed by her side in the woods, and slept under the trees for two nights, until he saw party lanterns being strung and knew he would be missed.

Melian’s weavers had fashioned him an exquisite set of clothing, though they tutted and remarked to themselves as they dressed him that he would get little use from it, as swiftly as he grew. “Seems a shame, to make something so fine that will see only a season’s wear.”

“Men grow wildly fast, do they not? This one in particular.”

“Ah, but, the King says he’s to be arrayed as a proper prince, so it must be so.”

In the first year of his life in Menegroth, almost no one had spoken Taliska to him, save a few words for necessity. He had learned Sindarin rapidly out of the great need for it, since no one would speak to him otherwise, by order of the King. Since then, he had noticed that if he was silent, those around him would often speak as if he were not there, as the Queen’s tailors and clothiers did now.

Back in Dor-Lómin, Yule was a festival that lasted six days, of feasts and parties and dances, of sacrifices and songs and caring for those in great need. There were the light-kindlings, the gift-givings, the tree-decoratings, the coins baked into cakes, and the ceremonial burnings, along with the welcoming of strangers into the home for warmth and fellowship.

The Midwinter Festival in Doriath was but three days, which was sort of a disappointment, but the decorations were truly magical. Butterfly lanterns beat their paper wings softly, sculptures of ice glittered in the winter sunlight, fires were kindled in every color imaginable, and the song and dance were lovely enough to make Túrin’s heart ache. The songs, he joined with, offering his voice with every other voice, and saw some elves smile at him. The dance, though, he hung back from. The moves were too complex, the dancers too talented, and each sweep of fan and feather looked as if something from another world had lighted upon this one. It was magnificent to watch, but not something he could be a part of, not if he summoned all his skill and grace, little that it was.

The first day was more of an exhibition than anything; there was a great unveiling of the year’s works by master artisans of all trades, from weavers to dyers to swordsmiths, and everywhere Túrin looked, there was another masterpiece to behold. He kept his hands pressed firmly together--he could not mar what he did not touch--and strolled with wide eyes among pillars of sculpture, magnificent tapestries, beautiful towering cakes, and all sorts of tools he did not understand. He lingered longingly by the smithcraft’s display, yearning to run his fingers over the swords and daggers.

“Beautiful work,” came a deep voice from behind him, and Túrin looked up to see his foster father, standing tall and regal in resplendent robes that suited his lanky frame, making him look intensely otherworldly. “Túrin, lad. Which one do you like best?”

Túrin hardly dared to hope. “The one with the red stone in the pommel,” he said, pointing to a dangerous-looking sword with a long straight blade, and a deep fuller’s groove. The red stone was quite pretty, and the set against the black hilt wrapping, reminded him of something that his mother would like. She often went arrayed in black and red, despite his father teasing her that she should wear the colors of Dor-Lómin more often, as she was its lady.

Thingol’s eyes creased at the corners, as though he might almost have smiled. “Maethevrin, noble craftsman. The blade.”

The smith bowed, and picked up the sword, handing it to Thingol gravely. He was broad, for an elf, though not so broad as Túrin’s father or some of the stout men of his company had been. His hair was a light brown, cropped short about his face, and his finery was as beautifully tailored as that of any other elf in Menegroth, fitting his sturdy frame elegantly.

Thingol turned it over in his hand, then handed it hilt-first to Túrin. “You will have much need of it,” he said, and once again, his eyes were faraway. “Take care of it as you would a trusted friend.”

“Thank you,” Túrin breathed, unable to believe his good fortune. The sword felt wondrous in his hand, and he turned to the smith, bowing low. “Thank you for your work, my lord!”

The smith glared at him for a moment, and Túrin’s smile faltered. Perhaps this elf, too, was fond of Saeros, and had heard tales of Túrin’s foolishness and stupidity. Often, he had believed he would be about to make a new friend, only to find that they were already allied against him, merely waiting for the chance to trip him in public.

But then the elf’s green eyes crinkled, and a small smile creased his lips. “Captain says you’re a good one,” he said gruffly. “Come by the forge sometime. I might have errands for a boy to run. Or a few daggers that need to be blooded on orcs.”

“I fight orcs!”

“So I hear,” the smith said, and Túrin’s heart raced. Captain? Was the smith perhaps friends with Mablung, who seemed to like him well enough, or was at least not friendly with Saeros? Or was it Beleg the smith was speaking of, one of the two elves he would truly call a friend?

“He is no errand boy,” Thingol said, somewhat severely. “He is my foster son.”

“Taking notes and carrying ore won’t make him less my lord’s foster son,” Maethevrin said, unconcerned. “Sire.”

Thingol pressed his lips together, then drifted away, with that look in his eyes that told everyone present he was hearing the speech of his Queen.

“Here, lad. Come back behind, we’ll talk orcs.”

Túrin spent the rest of the day gladly polishing and sharpening weapons, telling stories of his time in the woods, and hearing stories of great orc-hunts of the past. Maethevrin had taken part in the Hunting of the Wolf, and spoke in hushed tones of the event, and the valor of Túrin’s friends and his kinsman, his mother’s cousin Beren.

When the day was concluded, he helped Maethevrin to pack up his weapons, with great regret. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” The smith snorted. “For the floating lights? I’ll be asleep all day. Been working on these pieces months on end. It’s pretty as anything, but I’ve seen it, and will see it again next year. Go enjoy the feast, there’s one who’s here looking for you.” With that, he trilled a quiet birdcall, and Túrin heard it echoed through the caverns, repeated and sent back by dozens of Marchwardens, perched in different corners of the caves.

Another call sounded from just behind Túrin, and he turned, startled, only to give a glad cry when the one making the noise was Beleg himself. “You came!”

Beleg embraced him, laughing. He smelled of fresh herbs and leather, and for the first time, Túrin felt an odd stirring of some confused, nameless heat thread through him, when his face pressed against the Marchwarden’s chest. He drew back, bewildered at the strange sensation, but Beleg didn’t seem to notice anything different. “I said I would, didn’t I? Come, let’s find our places before the real dancing starts. I want to eat something I _didn’t_ catch or grow myself, for a change. My thanks, Maethevrin, for looking out for my young friend.”

“That’s quite a good friend,” the smith told him, nodding at Túrin. “As you must be to him, for he speaks of little else but you.”

“That’s--I’m not certain that’s true,” Túrin protested, suddenly embarrassed.

Beleg only ruffled his hair. “I’m flattered to make such an impression. Túrin, don’t make me wait to eat, I’ve had a long walk. And show me that sword, it’s lovely.”

“I won’t have to rely on that _little_ one anymore,” Túrin said, eyes alight now that he was allowed to speak of swords again. “Or the bow!”

“What’s wrong with the bow?” Beleg asked, miffed. “You’ve been listening to Mablung too much.”

“I have not,” Túrin informed him. “But the bow is _your_ weapon, is it not? I shall have my own, and it will be the sword.”

Beleg’s eyes went faraway themselves for a moment, but then they were back, and he was smiling. “I have a feeling you and I will both wield a sword, ere long,” he said, and fetched them a few honey-stuffed seedcakes, finding them a spot upon the stone benches to watch the dancing.

The first day drew to a close, and if Túrin still missed his mother’s Yule meal, a stewed pheasant with chestnuts and fennel, at least he had a friend beside him. He spared a thought for Sador, his Labadol, and wondered whether he had ever finished the grand chair for Húrin’s hall, or if he had been dragged into thralldom after all.

“Why so glum?” Beleg asked, and Túrin looked away quickly. But the words were not unkind, the way some of King Thingol’s counselors would often tell him he was being ungrateful, to make such faces when he had been given so much, even when he was only thinking. “Are you hungry? I often think you are sad, when you are only hungry.”

“No. Or, yes,” Túrin admitted. “I am hungry. But I am also thinking about a friend of mine, who might be dead, or a thrall. I wish...”

He trailed off, and shook his head, a darkness coming over him once more.

Beleg patted his shoulder, then stood. “Let’s find something to eat. And you shall tell me of this friend of yours, that you hold in such high esteem. If he is as you say, he must be a fine man indeed.”

The sword felt suddenly heavy at his hip. For a moment, Túrin thought he might give it to Beleg, that he might have a fierce weapon for when the orcs came too fast and thick for Belthronding alone.

No, Beleg was no cripple, who could not hope for such a fine thing as his own. And the gift had hardly made anyone happy, the first time he’d given something fine away.

Still, Beleg _should_ have a sword.

“Beleg,” he said, frowning as he was led to the food pavilion. “It would be some help to you, if you had a fast friend in the Marchwardens who had a sword, and was skilled in its use, would it not?”

“Every Marchwarden is a friend of mine.”

“Yes, but...a friend who walked with you through every peril, I mean. A friend who could become your sword.”

“Become my sword?” Beleg smiled, and it felt as if the snows were melting already. Túrin felt himself blush, though he knew not why. “I think you are destined for greater heights than that, Túrin. But you are my friend, and if you wish to join me through perils, it will not be me that turns you away.”

Túrin rather thought there was something Beleg was not telling him, but elected to ignore that. He nodded firmly to himself. He would become the sword of Beleg, if he could, until he was a man on his own, and could find his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing Sylanna has done me the great honor of doing an art for this chapter!!! AAhhhhh thank you so much!!! [Turin in the Menegroth Library](https://i.ibb.co/h84VpgY/Turin-Reads.jpg)


	5. The Flowers and the Spiders

A grouse’s call sounded through the forest. Beleg went still, the brown and green of his clothing helping him fade into the greenery. He’d been stalking a nest of spiders, but recognized the call immediately, and whistled a response, rising and falling like a nightingale’s call. The first call sounded again, more insistent, and Beleg slung Belthronding over his shoulder, taking to the trees, dashing from bough to branch.

Soon enough, he caught sight of a young lady, sitting in a tree. She looked nervous, with her knees tucked up to her chest as if she sat on the sturdy ground rather than at the edge of a slender bough. She saw him, and shrank back, until he came to a halt, holding out his hands.

“I meant not to frighten you, lady...” He sought in his mind for her name, and lighted on it. “Lady Nellas, wasn’t it? Daughter of Cîliel the wanderer, and Himelron, the poet? I thought you called for the Marchwardens.”

“I...did not know it would be the Captain who answered,” Nellas said, into her knees. “I had only heard that the Marchwardens were fond of the King’s foster-son, young Lord Túrin...”

Beleg’s eyebrows shot up. “Aye, my lady. Is Túrin well?”

“He is...unhappy.” Nellas would not meet his eyes, arms around her legs. “There is a hollow beneath a birch not far from here. Túrin is weeping beneath it, and would not speak to me, not even of the flowers he loves.”

“Why?”

“He would not speak to me,” she said again, as if uncertain she had spoken aloud the first time.

Beleg nodded. “My thanks, lady.”

He swung down from the tree, landing soundlessly upon the frost-covered leaves. He made his way to the birch with the hollow at the root, and heard Túrin before he saw him. Just outside the perimeter, he began humming a song of travel, a counting rhyme for the different species of tree found in the wide forests of Doriath.

After a long moment, he heard a quavering response, the next verse of the song, and he paused, acting as if he’d only just happened upon the boy by accident. “Why, Túrin, lad, what are you doing down there?”

“...I was scolded,” Túrin muttered, and crawled out of the hole, his expression blacker than Beleg had thought a fourteen-year-old’s face could grow. “Where are you going? Is it away from Menegroth? Can I come with you?”

Beleg grimaced. “I have a nest of spiders to root out, and I wouldn’t bring you to something so--“

“I’ll come!”

“It’s dangerous, and you are the King’s foster-son.”

“I’ll come.” Túrin thrust out his chin, and if there were tear tracks on his lovely face, they were at least dry now. “You won’t find me a burden, I swear it.”

“Careful,” Beleg said softly, and held out his hand, palm-up, and took Túrin’s in it, squeezing. “Among the elves, swearing promises means quite a lot. Once you swear some oaths, you’ll be bound for the Void, if you forsake them.”

Túrin gripped his hand with all the strength of an elf full-grown, for all he was fourteen, a promise of future strength. “How else will you think me serious?” he asked.

Beleg smiled down at him. “You are always serious,” he told Túrin, and led him away from the woods, whistling the call of a grouse. “Would you like to wait for me out here, whilst I go into Menegroth and fetch your things for a walk in the woods? For a few days? I have a lodge near Dor Dinen that we could visit, once the spiders are gone.”

Túrin’s eyes lit up, and he nodded. “I’ll wait here, in the trees. There is a kind lady in them who speaks to me of the flowers.”

“Then learn from her, and teach me what you’ve learned, once I come fetch you, yes?”

“I’ll leave you a sign of where I’ve gone,” Túrin said, and pulled out a small knife, turning to the birch, before Beleg lay a hand upon his shoulder.

“Trifle not with the trees, for they are my friends, and I’ll not have their skin pulled apart,” he said, with a smile to soften the sting of the words. “No matter where you go, if you are in the woods, Beleg the Strongbow will find you.” _That_ , he would swear, and gladly.

It took him nearly an hour to find someone in Menegroth that had seen the altercation. One of the King’s councilors had made comments, it seemed, and followed the lad to his duties running errands for the forges, singing a song of Minstrel Daeron about the perfidy of Men in the wars past, and the part of Uldor the Accursed in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

Túrin had snapped, hurling a Taliska insult, but the ones teasing him had been nowhere to be found, and Túrin had been scolded for cursing in Mannish within Menegroth. King Thingol, apparently, had been unsympathetic to the story of the song, willing to take his counselor’s testimony that they’d been unaware of Túrin’s presence.

 _This is why I never spend time in Menegroth_ , Beleg thought wearily, and hefted Túrin’s pack over his shoulder, fetching the lad’s cloak. He left word with one of the doorwardens that he was absconding with the King’s foster son, and turned his feet back to the woods, where they had ever belonged. Let the king seek and summon him back, if he was so inclined. Beleg rather doubted he would.

He found Túrin in a glade with the lady Nellas, pointing to different creeping vines and trying to guess what they would be when they bloomed, as she laughed and taught him the secrets of growing things. Beleg saw her reach out as if to touch Túrin’s hair, then pull her hand back, thinking better of it, and the lad notice none of it.

“Here, Túrin, I’ve brought your pack,” he called, and Túrin jumped up at once, his feet crushing the flower he’d been looking at. Nellas sucked in a breath, and Túrin looked down, and his face crumpled.

“It’s...I didn’t mean to,” he said, and took the pack, obviously at a loss of what to say, as he followed Beleg into the woods.

Túrin was quiet while they walked, for nearly an hour. Then, finally, the silence got to him, and he muttered, “Did they tell you I got in trouble?”

“I heard.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No. Why should I be? Was it me you cursed?”

“No! I would never!”

“And did you lie?”

“No!” Túrin’s voice was frustrated, brimming with impotent rage. “I would never!”

“Then why should I be angry?”

Túrin’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You truly believe me?”

“You have never lied to me,” Beleg told him, and rested a hand on Túrin’s head, feeling the strangely coarse hair there slip through his fingers. “I care not what anyone else says, if you tell me you were true, as you have ever been.”

Túrin’s lip trembled, just for a moment, before he firmed his mouth and mastered himself, blinking rapidly. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “Did you fetch my sword from my rooms? Otherwise, I only have this knife. How big are the spiders?”

“Too large for a knife. Aye, your sword is in your pack.”

“And my helm?”

“The Dragon Helm?” Beleg asked, his brow raising. “Surely, you are still too small to wear it.”

Túrin’s face twisted immediately into a scowl. “I will not be forever.”

Beleg lay a hand on his shoulder, and left it there as they walked, his eyes picking out signs of spider trails. “You will not be young forever--nor much longer, I fear,” he said. “If the world and fate are kind, you will be old far longer than you will be young, and may miss it dreadfully.”

“Do you miss being young?”

Beleg was silent for a long minute. Túrin did not push. They walked, and he looked for tracks, and thought, and finally said, “I do not think I remember being young.”

“Mm. Then I will remind you.”

“You do, Túrin.” If anything could, after as long as he had lived, it would be this Mannish Youth--though why, he could not yet pierce the veil of fate to see. He had met other Men, thousands of them, but none had touched his heart. To be fair, few of his own folk had ever earned his great love, either. Friends he had in plenty, but close friends, those were rare, no matter their birth.

Túrin peered around, and his eyes lighted. “I see a web!”

“Well spotted,” Beleg said, and held a finger to his lips. “Wait here for me.”

“But--“

“They will be in the trees,” Beleg explained, “and you cannot climb like I can.”

Túrin set his shoulders. “Maybe I can.”

This boy’s stubbornness was going to be the death of Beleg, he was certain. “Fine, then follow me,” he offered, and leapt into the low-hanging boughs, scaling them as quickly as he would scale a set of stairs. He heard one of the branches suddenly groan in its language, and looked down to see Túrin levering himself slowly up, the slender bough bending under the weight.

There was no discouraging Túrin, but there was evading him. Beleg ran up the trees as if he were running sideways instead of straight up, and brought out his bow. The first spider was no larger than a cow, but fast for all that. It took three shots to the weakest spot in its armor to bring the creature down, and by then, the rest were upon him.

It was a hard and disgusting battle, and left him with a stinging, aching wound in the side. Poison threaded quickly through him, a nauseatingly familiar sensation, but at least he had the antidote in his packs. He sighed, dropping down branch by branch, until he found Túrin just four branches off the ground.

“There were _things_ falling all around me!” Túrin accused. “They were huge! They kept splattering on the ground! You said it was spiders!”

“Spiders too large for your knife,” Beleg said, and gripped his own branch suddenly tight, as his vision blurred. He blinked to clear it, and then something hit him, _hard_.

“Beleg? Beleg!”

What had hit him? Ah, the ground. That made sense.

He’d thought it was the last spider who got him, but perhaps it was before that after all. “Not to worry, I have an antidote,” he tried to say, but his lips felt stiff and numb, and over the rushing in his ears, he heard himself only let out a garbled groan. Ah. Inconvenient.

He heard fumbling, and heard a shaky, confused voice, and then there were fingers at his mouth, shoving something inside. They were clumsy and too-rough, and then they were grabbing his chin and forcing it up, rubbing urgently at his throat as if he were a young goat who would not swallow his medicine, until his throat closed convulsively, over and over again.

Pain was snaking slowly through his limbs, and though his eyes were open, he could see little, the world gone cold and grey. There was a weight on his chest, and someone was weeping--no, screaming, and something was striking his face.

 _Túrin, don’t weep_ , he wanted to say, but his mouth would no longer pretend to work. _This is not a poison that will kill me, only send me to an inconvenient sleep for a while. It is hardly the first of Ungoliant’s spawn to prick me so._

“Don’t leave me,” he heard, broken-hearted. “Beleg, please, don’t leave me!”

The bitter taste on his tongue suddenly burst with flavor. Whatever had been forced down his throat left a pungent, sticky aftertaste, and he suddenly recognized the petals of the Alethsilia flower, which his own antidote was made from. The numbness began to fade, leaving the burning, spiking pain, but pain was nothing. Slowly, his chest began to rise and fall again, and he coughed, feeling his eyes start to water fiercely.

“Beleg! Beleg, can you hear me?”

Túrin was clutching at his collar, rather roughly enough to throttle him a bit, and Beleg brought up a shaky hand, patting the boy’s arm. “I’m all right,” he rasped, and coughed again, turning his head. “Alethsilia?”

“Did I remember right?” Túrin asked, not releasing him, near-frantic in his questioning. “Nellas said it would help with a spider’s sting, but you weren’t talking, I didn’t know how to make you--did I hurt you? I’m always hurting people without meaning to...”

“You did right,” Beleg interrupted, and managed a smile, patting Túrin on the arm once more. “Get off my chest, let me sit up.”

Túrin scrambled off, but sat so close as to nearly be on his lap, as if afraid he would look away and Beleg would be gone. “You’re going to live, right? Say you’ll live!”

“I’ll live,” Beleg assured him, and did not laugh, because Túrin was so painstakingly earnest. A sound pricked at his ears, and he stood, though his muscles protested that there was still toxin flowing through him, doing battle with the Alethsilia. “Let me show you,” he said, and moved to his pack, “how we deal with a spider’s eggsac, when it’s ready to burst.”

Túrin’s face blanched in sudden revulsion, but he did not flinch from the task, and afterwards, only demanded that he be taught more of how to kill spiders, though Beleg tried to guide him to spend time on the use of antidotes. They were, Túrin insisted, boring.

They walked through the woods for long days, sleeping in their bedrolls, though Beleg rarely entered true-sleep, instead leaving his eyes open at all hours, letting the forest whisper to him of comings and goings. Once, he was keeping watch, alert for orc-noises, when he heard Túrin ask quietly, “Why is it you believe in me, Beleg, when everyone else is eager to think me false?”

Beleg thought for a long moment. “I’ve told you that it was because you’ve never lied to me.”

“But I haven’t lied to King Thingol, either,” Túrin said and his voice was small in a way he would never have let it be, if the sun were high in the sky. Only in the darkness did he let himself be vulnerable, Beleg thought, and wondered at what sort of elf he would have made, what sort of fearsome Captain, had he been with them when they had measured time only by the slow wheeling of the stars, before the moon ever chased the sun.

Beleg chose his words carefully. It would not do to speak ill of his King, nor of the lad’s foster-father. He had few enough friends in Menegroth, though those that _did_ know him well, most of Beleg’s friends in the Marchwardens, counted him brave and kindhearted. “Don’t make count of the injustices done to you,” he advised at last. “You will always find the number too high for comfort--and you will always have friends to spring to your defense. I believe in you, Túrin, because I know you, and I trust you, and I love you.”

Túrin was silent for the span of several heartbeats, so long that Beleg thought he might have gone back to sleep, if he had slept at all. “You love me,” Túrin repeated at last, several minutes later.

“Aye, I do.”

“...My people are sparing with those words,” Túrin said, sounding thoughtful. “It is actions that show our feelings. My mother has perhaps said them to me twice. I recall my father saying them only once. Do your people say it often?”

Beleg reached for a cloth, and began to oil the stave of great Belthronding. “No,” he said simply. “But only when it is meet, and when it is true.”

Túrin said no more. He closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep, Beleg noted with amusement, as his breath did not even out, and within a few moments, had wormed his way close, to rest his head against Beleg’s knee.

“Sleep well, son of Morwen,” Beleg said softly, and rested his hand upon Túrin’s brow, brushing the hair back from his face. “And know that you are loved.”

If he could do nothing else, at least he could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely Sylanna has done art for this scene too!! Thank you so much!!![Antidote Scene](https://i.ibb.co/Qc9nmTx/Antidote-scene.jpg)


	6. The Bear in the Night

Summers were beautiful in Menegroth, and the forest of Doriath surrounding the fair city. The weather was softly warm, without the baking heat he remembered rolling in off of the vast plains near Hithlum that he remembered from childhood, everything muted to tranquility by the Girdle of Melian. Birds sang and danced in the trees with the desperate calls of mating. The few elf-children that were still young in Doriath went running about the caves and the outside wood, laughing and singing their beautiful songs. All the ice and snow that Morgoth could send was broken, and lush green and gold burst from the carpet of the forest floor, making it soft enough to run upon barefoot for even the most tender-skinned child.

Túrin hated the summers.

In the summers, everything was worse. Thingol went walking with Melian in the wide woods, not to be seen for months. In his absence, his counselors grew bolder with their acidic remarks, particularly Saeros and Amarthon, who liked to pointedly stop talking when he came close, only to resume once he had passed, but was nowhere near out of earshot. Some of the elf-children were kind and offered to play with him, but he felt their games were strange, and at times struck too hard or befouled the games with his strength and clumsiness without meaning to. He had never thought himself awkward back in Dor-Lómin, but in Menegroth, where everything was unbearably delicate, fashioned for the careful fingers and light steps of the Eldar, things went awry about him all the time.

Worst of all, the woods were closed to him.

There was a slender band of safety about Menegroth, he was told, where the Marchwardens had deemed it safe for any to tread. But beyond that, crossing the Escalduin, or walking too far into the Forest of Region, and one might meet some of Morgoth’s creatures who might not yet have been driven mad by the Girdle of Melian, nor tracked down by the Marchwardens. They were fierce and well-run, but they could not be everywhere, not when their number dwindled over the long years. It was no small task to become a Marchwarden, and the elves of Doriath had few children to replace those they had lost.

Beleg was fighting the orcs, they told him every summer, and could not spare time to come and see his young human friend. The orcs came thick and fast when the weather was warm, emboldened by the lack of snow, and Dimbar could not lose its fiercest protector for even a few days. Túrin’s mood grew blacker the longer the days grew, longing to make some use of himself, to not be left behind in the echoing empty safety of Menegroth when his friends were fighting the battle that was his by birthright.

One day after midsummer, when he had just turned fifteen, Túrin took his sword and his bow--little he used the bow, to Beleg’s disappointment, but the sword always felt right in his hand--and threw a grey cloak about himself. None stopped him when he left, and he set out from Menegroth, already emboldened by his first steps northwest.

If Beleg wanted no company, he could simply turn Túrin away. He was not so churlish as to stay where he was not wanted, but neither could he stay in safety and comfort when his friends were fighting for their lives.

The first day, he encountered no danger, but he did find himself lost upon a path he had walked with Beleg so many times he’d forgotten to pay attention. He managed to find the trail again, and spent the night in his bedroll, entirely conscious that there was no one to watch over him as he slept, and did not fall asleep for more than a few scattered moments.

The second day, already weary, he ate a cluster of berries he should not have, and lost a few hours to unseemly cramps and ills of the stomach, and was sweating and shaking by the time he set out again. He determined not to sleep, failed in that, and awakened in mud, having rolled into a puddle while he was asleep.

The third day, Túrin was entirely conscious that it should only be a three-day walk to Beleg’s nearest lodge, and that he was _not_ going to reach it in that time. The knowledge soured his mood, and his stomach growled abominably. He managed to shoot a rabbit, but twisted his knee and broke two arrows in the pursuit. Try as he might, he could not find the arrowheads. He cursed, loudly and fluently in two languages, and cut his hand on his knife trying to skin the rabbit.

The fourth day, it rained.

Hungry, wet, tired, and with his knee and his hand aching, he curled up beneath his cloak at the base of an alder tree, waiting miserably for the rain to pass. He’d asked one of the Marchwardens once, a charming elf by the name of Sílor, why they still had such abominable weather even within the Girdle. Sílor had tousled his hair, and laughed, and said, “We love the rain as we love the sun, my young friend, for all weather leads to growth and renewal.”

Stupid Girdle. Stupid rain. Stupid elves.

He slept little and badly, and when he woke, it was still raining. It hurt to get himself to standing, and his knee had swollen badly during the night.

He stumbled, and it saved his life.

A black-fletched arrow thunked into the tree he was leaning on, where his head would have been had he not fallen. Túrin whipped around, in time to see three orcs come splashing through the forest towards him, snarling their foul battle cries.

Instinct and practice moved him more than sense. Túrin flung back his cloak and drew his sword, moving properly no matter his injuries, his sword flashing in the pale light of the clouded morning.

The orcs were stronger than he’d expected. They moved faster during the warm weather, and he bared his teeth, driving his sword deep into the chest of one orc, kicking out with his foot at another. If he were at his full strength, the kick might have snapped the orc’s neck; unbalanced and injured and weary as he was, it hardly fazed the creature.

Something grabbed him from behind. He brought down the orc in front of him, but felt something slide cold and sharp up against his ribs, a blow that skittered off the bone, opening a wide cut in his skin.

A grouse called in the thickets. Túrin struggled madly, but something wound about his throat, cutting off his air. The foul stench of an orc’s breath wafted over his face, and Túrin screamed with rage, reversing the grip on his sword and shoving it backwards, hearing it meet flesh as the creature howled.

A blade flashed in front of Túrin’s face. He tried to block it, but one of the orc-blades met his sword, and twisted, yanking it out of his hand. Something drove into his stomach, so hard he retched what little he’d eaten, and hoped it was onto one of the orcs.

Impact; something hard meeting flesh. Not his flesh, but the sound was close. Again--again--again--

Arrows, Túrin thought dimly. Fired so fast it seemed to be impossible they could have come from the same bow. His vision was blurred and swimming from pain and lack of air.

“Túrin? Nahar’s teeth, boy, what are you _doing_ here?”

Strong hands were on him, lifting him. Túrin struggled. “My sword,” he groaned.

“One of the Marchwardens will go back for it, when the orcs are gone.”

“Captain! We found the rest of them!”

“Go on, take Gwestaben and Nibeniel. Dravedir, fetch his packs, erase the signs of our presence. I’m getting him to the lodge.”

“Captain, let me carry him, you’re injured--“

“You have your orders, don’t make me repeat myself.”

“...Yes, Captain.”

Túrin smelled woodsmoke and leather, crushed pungent herbs and sweet unguents, and relaxed against a broad chest. “Beleg,” he sighed, his eyes closing. “I found you.”

“You? Found me? Is that what you were doing out here in the rain, being sliced open by orcs?”

“...Mm.”

Beleg sighed. Túrin could feel it against his cheek, and drifted.

At some point, Beleg poured something into his mouth. Túrin woke, though he hadn’t realized he was sleeping, and choked a bit. The taste was horrible, and he made a face, blinking his eyes open.

Beleg was sitting next to him, lips pressed together, a frown creasing his fair brows. “Hold still,” he instructed, and when Túrin would have sat up anyway, planted a hand on the center of his chest. “I said hold still.”

There was a note of iron in his voice. Túrin subsided, and felt himself shrinking into his body, quailing from the tone. “You’re cross with me,” he guessed.

“Yes.” Beleg was dabbing some sort of ointment on his side, and Túrin looked down and saw it had been stitched closed. There was quite a wound, he had to admit, and when he moved his leg, found it too had been bandaged, and that his knee hardly hurt anymore.

Túrin lay back in silence, depression gathering around him like a cloud. Beleg was angry with him. He had been foolish, and lost the trail, and not been able to provide for himself. All of Beleg’s teachings had gone to waste on him. He was one more clumsy idiot human child in Beleg’s eyes, too, not worth the effort the elf had put into training him. He should have stayed in Menegroth, couldn’t even keep his sword safe, couldn’t even keep himself safe, had distracted the Marchwardens from their tasks, and hadn’t they said-- “Are you wounded?”

Beleg’s gaze flickered. “It’s nothing.”

“But--“

“Túrin, hold still and let me treat your wounds, or I’ll send you back to Menegroth in a sack.”

Túrin froze.

Beleg touched him gently with warm hands, and even the needle going through his skin didn’t hurt. At one point, Beleg lay a hand on his chest when he leaned forward to grab a poultice, and the side of his thumb brushed accidentally against one of Túrin’s nipples.

To his horror, he felt himself start to grow hard.

He was stripped of his clothes to be bandaged, though at least Beleg had thrown a blanket across his waist for modesty’s sake. Still, it was a thin blanket, and Túrin closed his eyes in shame so stark it could drown him as he felt himself start to visibly tent the cloth. _Just kill me, Eru,_ he thought in despair.

“There. You should last the night, at least,” Beleg informed him, and wiped his hands of the ointment, then patted Túrin’s cheek. “Túrin. Do you understand why I’m angry?”

Túrin blinked, momentarily distracted from the hopeless anguish of getting an erection while being doctored. No one had ever asked him if he understood why they were angry before. Everyone just seemed to assume he _should_ know, then got angrier if he admitted he didn’t. “No,” he said, and grimaced, certain Beleg was about to toss him out of the lodge and back into the rain.

“You’re uncareful with yourself,” Beleg said gently, and brushed a hand through his hair, still damp from the rain. “You’re not a man grown yet, though you grow more swiftly than any elf. Suppose I had not been in time? You had set out to find me, at the height of the orc season, and I find you injured and starving in the forest, little better than when I found you as a child?”

“So you are angry that I wasted your teaching,” Túrin said, and sighed. “I lost the way, and I ate the wrong berries, and I forgot how to--“

“No,” Beleg interrupted, something he did so seldom that Túrin fell silent, his eyes wide. “I am _angry_ because you nearly got someone I love killed with your carelessness.”

“I did?” Túrin asked, aghast. “Who?”

“That isn’t funny,” Beleg said, then paused when Túrin’s expression only deepened into confusion. “Yourself,” he clarified, and brushed a wild drying curl back from Túrin’s face, though it did not stay where it was bidden. “Your lack of care nearly lost me a dear friend--you, in case you have lost my trail again.”

“Oh.” Túrin pondered that. “Is that something you should be angry about?”

“Yes.”

Túrin frowned, and poked a finger up at Beleg’s shoulder, where a fresh bandage was tied. “Might I be cross with you in turn? For I love you as surely as you love me.”

“You may not.”

“Why not?”

“Because worrying about one who spends his life defending the world of the living from the orcs is a way to make yourself ill every day.” Beleg bent, and kissed Túrin’s forehead, and fortunately, turned away before he could see how Túrin’s prick immediately filled again. _No, you’d just gone down!_ Túrin thought in desperation, and tried to think of orc guts spilling over his hand, and the stench of their breath in his nose.

“You should eat something. What would you like?” Beleg asked.

“Orc guts,” Túrin blurted without thinking, and Beleg stared at him.

“I...was going to give you a choice between venison and pheasant,” he said mildly. “Have the sons of Men begun eating such foul kills?”

Mortified, Túrin grabbed the pillow and pulled it over his face. “Don’t speak to me,” he said into the pillow. “Don’t look at me.”

He heard laughter, but it was not unkind, and Beleg’s hand patted his shoulder. “Get some sleep. You’re exhausted. If you’re hungry in the morning, I’ll feed you--though I will _not_ feed you orc guts.”

That night, they lay together in the bed, as they always did when Túrin came to stay. He dreaded the day when Beleg would say he had grown too large to share, but it had not come yet, and Beleg had so far seemed perfectly content to squish onto one side of the small bed, leaving Túrin space to toss and turn.

He woke in the night to find he was hard again, and most inconveniently so, as he was pressed up against Beleg’s back. Beleg shifted slightly in his sleep, and that tiny brush of friction was so suddenly erotic that Túrin rolled back as fast as he could, right off the bed, and hit the floor facedown. Pain burst in his knee and his side, and then there was a flash of movement, and Beleg was on his feet, Belthronding somehow already in his hands. “Túrin? What’s wrong? Did you hear something?”

“Yes,” Túrin lied quickly, struggling to get off the floor with his dignity intact. “I think, I think it might have been a bear!”

“Stay here,” Beleg ordered, and stole silently out the door in his nightshirt, as Túrin grabbed the pillow from the bed, buried his face in it, and screamed.

By the time Beleg returned, Túrin was back in the bed, curled up into the fetal position and determined to stay that way from now on. “I didn’t see any tracks,” Beleg told him, frowning. “You might have had a dream.”

“It could have been a dream,” Túrin agreed, praying vibrantly that Beleg could not see the redness of his face. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Beleg smiled, and unstrung his bow, hanging it back on the wall. “Not to worry. It’s best to be vigilant, and I never sleep very soundly in the summers. Are you all right? Is your knee hurting? I have a tea I can brew that will ease the pain.”

“I don’t even feel it,” Túrin lied miserably. He was hungry and tired and somehow still stupidly hard, the way he always seemed to be these days whether he willed it or not. “Beleg...don’t send me back to Menegroth. I miss you desperately in the summertimes. Let me be a Marchwarden when I come of age.”

Beleg was quiet for a moment, climbing back into the bed. There were no candles burning, but he moved with a cat’s grace even in pitch black darkness. “Summers are far more dangerous than winters. I would rather wait to see you than have you rush out and be injured, or killed.”

“Then stay by my side, so that I might learn better how to defend the wood,” Túrin argued, still not moving. If he just ignored it, it would go away. “You have need of more Marchwardens, do you not?”

“Of course,” Beleg said slowly. “But I think your destiny is for greater heights.”

“What greater heights could there be than attacking the Enemy?”

“...You may be right. That is certainly how I’ve lived until now.” Beleg was silent, thinking, and his shoulder came to rest against Túrin’s back. It was unavoidable, in the lodge’s small bed. “I doubt that Thingol would allow you to take the oath of service, foster-son as you are. But whenever you like, you may send for me, summer or winter, and we can walk together through the woods.”

At that, a bit of Túrin’s misery finally ebbed. “Whenever I like? Summer or winter?”

“Aye, as I said.”

Suddenly, Túrin hated the summers a great deal less. They were beautiful in Doriath, after all.


	7. A Lesson by the Camp

“There is a surprise, over the next ridge.”

Túrin’s eyes did not alight--he considered himself too old for surprises, at sixteen, and too serious for any joy in them. Beleg had often seen the other Marchwardens and Councilors of Doriath ply him with wine and funny stories to see who could make him laugh, who could tease a smile out of that stern visage, fascinated with the human youth that King Thingol had taken as foster. Such contests rarely ended without hurt feelings, as Túrin could be callous without meaning to, and Túrin was usually the most confused of them all at the end of such encounters.

“What sort of surprise?” Túrin asked, eyes narrowing.

“An encampment of the Haladrim.” Beleg offered a smile, and a light touch to Túrin’s shoulder. “Your father’s mother’s kin.”

Dark brows furrowed. “This close to the borders? They must be desperate indeed, to risk the King’s wrath.”

“It is no wrath, for they are friends of Doriath, and its King. Not so honored a friend as you, perhaps, but they’ve been given leave to dwell in Brethil, for their valiant deeds against the Enemy.”

Túrin frowned. “How is this meant to be a gift to me?”

“You had questions for me, a few days hence,” Beleg said, keeping his tone light and careful. “Questions that the folk of your birth may be better equipped to answer.”

For he had not known what to say, when Túrin had asked, _“How shall I shave my face, of these itchy patches of hair? Will my knife suffice?”_ or _“When will I stop growing? Surely I am beggaring the tailors of Menegroth for cloth,”_ or when Túrin had asked hesitantly in the dark, _“Do elves sometimes...feel that the body overrides the mind?”_

He had tried to answer, but had found Túrin uncharacteristically unsatisfied with his attempts, and turned his thoughts instead to finding the lad someone better equipped to deal with his questions, of which there were few, but those important.

The encampment was a sturdy one, guarded by many axe-wielders, but Beleg whistled the challenge-answer, and was let pass as a friend. He and Túrin were welcomed, though with less song than an Elvish camp would have provided, and more roasted meats and wines about a campfire.

“What news of the north-marches, and of Menegroth, Lord Beleg?” asked an Elder, by the name of Hunmir. Beleg had known him in his youth, as a wild spirit quick to anger and laughter both, changeable and free. Now he was bent with age, his grandchildren fetching him broth and mashed boiled tubers, all that he could eat after his teeth had long deserted him. It had seemed no more than an eyeblink of time to Beleg, and he cast a sudden glance at Túrin, as if afraid that he, too, would suddenly be bowed and withered.

No, Túrin was still young, not even in the full bloom of adulthood. He was also staring sourly at the fire, ignoring or not noticing the young women who tried to speak to him, obviously thinking him tall and fair and mysterious. Was Túrin still too young to notice females? Beleg had seen younger humans wed, he thought, but frankly had never paid much attention to the matter, little as it pressed upon his own life.

“Menegroth prospers,” he said, turning his attention back to Hunmir. “King Thingol has made a fast alliance with Orodreth of Nargothrond, and while he and Queen Melian long for their daughter, there is frequent news from Tol Galen. Thingol’s heir, Dior, grows with the speed and strength of Men, they say, but the beauty of his mother and grandmother.”

“Heir?” asked one young woman, whose name Beleg did not know. “Does King Thingol need such a thing? Surely, he has lasted this long, and with Queen Melian’s counsel, he will outlast even the forests themselves.”

Beleg smiled, and selected another roasted beet from the plate he had been given. “Who would want to outlast the forests?” he asked, then turned instead to the matter of the north-marches, feeling Túrin’s eyes upon him.

He spoke of orcs and wolves, and saw answering nods. They, too, had seen the forces of the Shadow increasing day by day, creeping ever closer to the forests, no longer turned back by the March of Maedhros in the East, nor the fortresses of Hithlum in the West. “No stronghold defends Beleriand any longer,” he said softly, knowing he was frightening them, but unwilling to lie. “We defend only our claim-lands, for no force yet exists large and willing enough to drive him back into Angband.”

They nearly had. He had been there, upon the Anfauglith, had felt the berserk rage of battle and felt his fists smite upon the doors of Angband itself with the rest of High King Fingon’s company. He had heard them shouting _craven_ and _lord of slaves_ , mad with the lust of vengeance and long-held sorrow for fallen King Fingolfin, and for a moment, it really seemed as if they would win. The trumpets of Maedhros had yet to sound from the East, but they _would_ come. King Fingon had been certain, and spoken with such conviction that it roused courage in all of them.

 _To be that certain of the other Captain with me,_ he had thought, seeing no trace of doubt in Fingon’s eyes, only a fiercely burning love. _To charge into battle a day early and against the plan, without being able to see him, and still insist with absolute surety that my back was covered, because I would never be betrayed. What would that be like?_

Mablung would never betray him, of course, but Mablung would make his own decisions, as he ever had, with wisdom and intelligence. It was that reckless love in King Fingon’s eyes that had taken Beleg aback, and made him wonder for the first time if perhaps the north-marches of his long vigil were too lonely after all.

His eyes strayed to where Túrin sat, and he recalled his mission in coming here, turning with a smile to Hunmir. “My friend, have you perhaps some young men of your encampment that could speak with my young friend, here? For he has questions of the ways of Men that I, learned as I am, cannot answer.”

He saw Túrin hunch where he sat, obviously embarrassed at being singled out. Apparently he acted often thus in Menegroth; each time Beleg returned to visit and take Túrin with him into the wilds, at least one of his fellows (usually Amarthon or Saeros) would ask why, when surely the trees would be better company than the King’s gloomy, joyless foster-son.

But Túrin was not those things, in the woods. He spoke little unless he had a reason for speaking, yes, but they were often engrossed in action, not discourse. He was always quick to speak up against perceived injustices he noted, and was kind, if awkward, with any of the captives they freed from Morgoth’s creatures. He was swift to anger, but never over-cruel, and showed mercy to any animals caught in snares or by blades, intentional or accidental.

He thought he saw some glint of mockery in Hunmir’s eyes, but the old man waved a hand, and a younger one came to his side. “Gundir, take Lord Beleg’s young friend to show him the armory--and perhaps the building behind it.”

Gundir, a callow youth a bit older than Túrin, though shorter, nodded as if he understood something. “Come, Lord Túrin,” he offered, and beckoned. “Let us have speech.”

Túrin’s glance flickered uncertainly to Beleg, but he stood, and left the fire without another word.

Beleg set himself to the task of fletching arrows, and offered his help in the healing of minor wounds, nervous as they were to ask for it, as if it were a gift that he would snatch away from them upon each visit. He had just seen to the ninth minor accident, a young lady with a terrible burn from the flaming arrow of an Easterling, when Túrin came stalking back to the fire, his face flushed bright red. He grabbed his packs and his sword without a word, slinging them onto his shoulder.

“Túrin?” Beleg asked, alarmed. “What’s amiss?”

Túrin did not answer, and would not look at him, but made for the woods of Brethil without another word, vanishing into the shadows.

Gundir came hurrying back to the fire, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Lord Beleg,” he said, looking confused. “We were only speaking, and all of a sudden he took a queer turn, and then he was gone?”

“What were you speaking of?” Beleg asked, and finished binding the young woman’s wound, then picked up his own packs. He moved smoothly, but not in haste, for as long as Túrin’s legs were, he was not yet so skilled in woodcraft that he could evade Beleg in the darkness. Besides, he would hardly be _trying_.

“Of...” Gundir looked to Hunmir, who nodded. “I showed him how to shave, Lord, and told him the parts a Man must wash, that your own kind have no need of, and--well, I thought he might enjoy the sweat lodge, and Lilnir was there, and she offered to ease him, and he made a sound, and she laughed, and then he was running!”

The words did not _quite_ make sense, but Beleg had accepted long ago that the ways of Men were strange. He nodded, and thanked Hunmir for his hospitality, then took off into the woods after his young friend.

It was not a long chase. Túrin was little trying to hide his tracks, and Beleg found him within two hours. Túrin was standing at the edge of a short peak, black brows drawn together, but Beleg thought his gaze was turned inward, rather than at the forest he saw.

“I’m disappointed,” Beleg called, though the words were light. “Surely it should have been harder for me to find you than that. You were trained by Beleg Cúthalion, after all--or is he no great teacher of woodcraft and hunting?”

Túrin did not move. When Beleg drew closer, he saw that the young Man was trembling, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Did you see something that you weren’t expecting?”

“She was _naked_ ,” Túrin muttered, the color high in his cheeks. “She touched me.”

Beleg tried not to grimace. “You’ve lived long years amongst the Eldar,” he said, and took a seat on the rock, though his legs were not tired. Often, Túrin had to be reminded to rest as Men must, rather than holding himself to the standards of the Elves he wanted so badly to aquit himself among. “We are more chaste than Men. Certainly you would not expect such treatment from one of our _neth_.”

“Chaste?” Túrin frowned, though he still would not look at Beleg. “In such matters, Menegroth is not so different from the house of my father. Certainly no girl there ever tried to...in such a fashion.”

“You were much younger then,” Beleg reminded him. “Not nearly a man grown. The people of Haleth oft wed as young as you. I have heard it said of the House of Bëor that they are not so reckless in their passions, and hold themselves to the example set down by their forefathers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sit, son of Húrin. My neck grows weary of looking up at you.”

Reluctantly, Túrin sat next to him, though he still stared out over the hill. “What did you mean?” he asked again. “What example?”

“The Edain tend after we Elder Children,” Beleg explained. “And your men take only one wife. In some of the houses, a widow or widower may wed again, and among the Easterlings, they take many to their beds, and do few the honor of marriage, if they do so at all.”

“To their beds,” Túrin echoed, sounding nervous. “For...touching.”

Beleg suddenly realized that perhaps he was not the best person to be having this conversation with Túrin. But--who else? King Thingol? He _was_ the boy’s foster father, but somehow, Beleg could not envision that conversation. And he could _not_ leave it to one like Saeros, who might think it amusing to give Túrin false information about himself.

So he sighed, and folded his legs, looking up into the star-speckled sky. “Have you knowledge of what happens between a man and his wife in the marriage bed?”

He could hear Túrin gulp in a breath, then shake his head. “Only that I mustn’t speak of it, or ask about it.”

“The Sindar are not so shy as the Edain, then,” Beleg said, with a gentle nudge of his shoulder. “Understand that I know little of what might be different with Men, but if Beren and Lúthien could bring forth Dior, it must not be too dissimilar. It--look, you know when your prick gets hard?”

Túrin made a despairing little noise. So he knew.

“Once you’re wed, you might put it into the hole between a woman’s legs,” Beleg said, as bluntly as possible to end this conversation as soon as he could. “Your wife’s, I mean. And you spend yourself there, and concentrate very hard, so that the two of you will have a child in a year.”

“... _Really?_ ” Túrin asked, aghast. “I...I thought it was something of the sort, but...”

Beleg raised a fair brow. “Did you perhaps understand it a bit differently?” Perhaps it _was_ different among humans, he thought guiltily, and hoped he was not lying.

“I...I knew a man and a woman must go to bed together in marriage,” Túrin said slowly. “But I thought they both...would spend themselves together, outside, and then create a very small child by mixing it together, and the woman would eat it, and that was how it would grow within her.”

Beleg nodded gravely, and resolved never to let Túrin know how difficult it was not to laugh. It would have hurt him so. “Not quite. It is more like the beasts of the land than the fish of the streams. You’ve seen the dogs in the kennels mate, yes?”

“Yes,” Túrin said dubiously. “But my--it...it doesn’t work quite like that.”

Beleg nodded. “I doubted that it did. But so, you see. My friends among the Edain tell me that humans engage in such activities more often than we.”

“You have no wife, Beleg.”

“That is so, I have no wife.”

“Why not?”

Beleg shrugged. It was far easier to speak of himself than of the acts humans might perform with each other, of which he knew little and generally cared less. “My people believe that we will know the person we are meant to be joined with. We do not wed for political reasons or for fires of the body, but for great love only.”

“But you are very old. Or so you keep telling me.”

“That I am.”

“That isn’t fair!”

There was something raw and angry in Túrin’s voice, and Beleg looked over at him, startled to see tears in his friend’s eyes. “You’re gentle, and strong, and mighty in knowledge,” Túrin insisted, as if these were crimes. “Why should no elven lady have seen this, and wanted you for her own? You must be so lonely.”

“Please don’t try to find me a wife,” Beleg said hastily, and lay a hand on Túrin’s shoulder, squeezing. “I am not lonely. I have the woods, and many friends, and you beside me, do I not?”

“Then I shall have the woods, too,” Túrin said firmly, and met his eyes. “How could I take a wife when you have none?”

Beleg floundered for a moment, entirely taken off his guard. “I don’t think that has much to do with--Túrin, you’re quite young, even by the measure of your own people.”

“I am not so young,” Túrin said, “to know that I would not wish to be beside a woman when I could be beside you.”

The wind shifted. Beleg smelled rain, not close, but moving in fast. “...We should make for shelter,” he said, and stood, offering Túrin his hand. “And think, my friend. I might live another five thousand years. It is not so difficult to be patient, when you are as long-lived as my people.”

“But you have been alone so long already,” Túrin argued. “What if you’re slain?”

“I will be just as dead whether there is an elven lady to grieve me or not,” Beleg answered, amused. “As I could have been at any time in the past. Besides, don’t forget. For my people, death is not the end, the way it is for Men. You go on to a final rest, they say, and to something that comes After. We return.”

Túrin looked even more skeptical at that, but let it be, and finally rose from the rock. His hand was too-warm, as if he had a fever. “It smells like rain,” he said after a moment. “Will we return to the lodge?”

Beleg shook his head. “It’s coming from the West. Come, let’s make for Menegroth. You perhaps should spend some time in the city.”

Túrin’s head snapped up. “Why?”

“Because you are the foster-son of the King of Doriath,” Beleg reminded him gently, “and not of Beleg Strongbow. It is meet that all should remember how fine you have grown, and see you as the Man you are becoming.”

Túrin was silent for long minutes. The minutes turned into hours as they walked through the darkness, their feet finding the path as surely as if they were in broad daylight.

Not until they were within sight of the Hidden City of a Thousand Caves did Túrin speak, and then it was but quietly. “These short wanderings are not true war. You fight the year round, and come to fetch me for a few days here and there when you think it will be quiet. Even now, you’re sheltering me.”

Beleg’s heart tightened. “Yes,” he said, for he could not deny the words and still speak true. “For fighting makes my heart sick, and I would be glad if all the days you and I had together were peaceful ones.”

“And I would be gladder still if all the days I had were together with you,” Túrin said, and then lengthened his stride before Beleg could respond, and dashed over the borders of Menegroth to disappear into the caves.


	8. An Absence in the Song

“Not to worry, little prince,” Dravedir had told him, and touched his cheek with a grin. “I’ll bring your mother news of how tall and strong you’ve grown.”

“And tell her about the orcs I’ve slain,” Túrin reminded him eagerly, as Dravedir made to leave for the North, shouldering his packs. “And tell her that I’ll come to aid her soon, and free all of our people, and she won’t need to hold out by herself any longer. And ask of my sister, and--“

“I’ve already said I will,” Dravedir said, but his smile was kind. He already bore the essentials he would need for the long road, plus the small things Túrin had begged him to take, things he had made or bought in Doriath, a mortar and pestle for his mother, a pair of hair ribbons for his sister, who he could never imagine as the child of eight she must be, but always saw her in his mind as a baby in arms.

Despite knowing it would be two months or more until he returned, Túrin found himself restless. Dark dreams overtook him, where he was fighting desperately for his life, fleeing through horrible storms, hiding from orcs, or being captured. Dor-Lómin as it had been was ever in his thoughts, with the shadow of his mother’s tall, slender form in the doorway, gazing out towards Barad Eithel, as if any day Húrin Thalion would yet come marching home with the men of his house.

Spring passed into a sweltering summer, and Túrin felt himself wracked with nerves. His mother was safe, he told himself. Surely, if there were news, Dravedir would have returned in haste. Perhaps this time, finally, Thingol’s messenger would return with Morwen and Nienor in tow, and they would be a family again at last. They would be welcome, and he would not feel so alone, and his constant forays into the woods would not feel so useless.

The drive to throw himself against the Enemy grew stronger every day. When he could make trial of himself in the marches, he did so with vigor, and threw himself in an almost berserk fury at the orcs, often catching an injury that he didn’t notice until much later. Beleg tutted and tsked and patched him up, and Túrin tried not to feel black resentment growing in his heart there, too.

It was not fair.

It was not fair, that fighting the orcs should feel so useless. It was not fair, that he was nearly an adult, but he still longed for his mother and sister to keep them close and safe, and he could not have them. It was not fair, that the elves of Doriath sang sweet and cheerful songs as though the continent of Beleriand were not being riven to the core, split along fault lines and flooded with poison. They had never tasted the Evil Breath, nor heard their gentle little sisters choke and wheeze for the next breath they would never take.

Saeros grew bolder with him, during the summers. Túrin stopped responding to him except when he had to, simply too weary to return insults with anything other than silence. This won him no friends, but nothing he ever did won him friends in Menegroth, he thought.

Autumn’s crisp chill crept through the forests. Túrin paced, when he was not allowed to venture the woods, and could not focus his mind on any proper task.

One day, he was practicing his swordplay against a dummy of Maethevrin’s, driving his sword in so deep that he could see nothing but the winking red stone in the pommel, when a shadow fell across the lamps. He pulled his sword free, and turned to see Mablung, the Captain of Menegroth’s defense. “Is there a battle?” he asked, not knowing why Mablung would come for _him_ , though well he should. Túrin was quite certain he had grown mighty in arms, and certainly he was taller and stronger than most of the elves in Doriath.

Mablung’s face was shadowed in the flickering lamps. “Walk with me, lad. Maethevrin, I’m stealing your young apprentice.”

“He doesn’t make anything,” Maethevrin said genially, but Túrin thought his eyes were troubled.

He fell into step with Mablung, who led him to the outer defenses, where stone walls would not press in on him quite so tightly. “Is there news?” he asked, as he had asked every time someone sought him out in the past five months. “Of my mother, and my sister?”

“No.”

Túrin’s heart sank, but there was more.

“And there will not be, save a miracle.”

“What? Why?”

“Dravedir has not returned,” Mablung said, with a regret and sorrow on his face that Túrin could hardly fathom, so inhuman did it seem. “Cúthalion sent several of his Marchwardens to seek for news of him, but found only wolves and orcs in all our hiding places on the road. King Thingol will send no more messengers.”

Túrin felt his stomach fill with something cold and heavy. “No more...until spring?”

Mablung shook his head. “No more. There are those who think we have already lost too much, in seeking outside our borders.”

“Too much!” Túrin cried, and drew back from him, hurt and anger pulsing through him. “Too much, for the cousin of his son by law, alone and surrounded by those that would enslave her? Too much, for the last of the brave houses of Bëor and Hador? For my sister, with no one to carry her to safety as I was carried long ago? Let me go.”

“The King will not allow it.”

“Am I _his_ thrall, then?” Túrin demanded, feeling his blood grow hot, until he thought he might strike Mablung indeed. He remembered, dimly, that he had once thought he should try to fight Mablung, though he could not quite remember why. Something about an elf-maiden? That made little sense, Túrin hardly knew any elf-maidens, and none of them were worth fighting over. “Am I bidden to labor and toil at Thingol’s expense, rather than for my family’s care? He has my gratitude for the safety I have known for the past seven years, but after so long a time, might I not make trial of myself, as a man?”

“So long a time,” Mablung echoed, and shook his head, as if Túrin had said something remarkably amusing. “But why demand this of me? You are his foster-son, are you not? Tell him your will. I doubt he will waylay you, except in love.”

To Túrin’s deep, lasting humiliation, a throb of fear went through him. Not fear of asking, for he held no fear for the King of Doriath, though he was often told he should be more careful. But to go alone, on his own, venturing through roads that even the Marchwardens feared to use, treading the path that Dravedir had not been able to tread...

Dravedir was well over a thousand years old, he’d once told Túrin, and his daughter was Ialladis, Beleg’s trusted lieutenant. His wife had died at the First Battle of Beleriand, fighting back to back with Ialladis, who wore her mother’s Laiquendi braid patterns in her memory. If a warrior so ancient could be brought down, how should a boy of seventeen make his way there, even to see his mother and sister?

But...

“I cannot stay here in safety,” he whispered, and made for his room, to think upon what he might do or say. Guilt and shame warred within him.

He heard a mourning song the next day for Dravedir, and ventured from his rooms to take it up. Ialladis came to his side, and at first, Túrin’s voice faltered. Would she hate him? It was his fault, of a sort, that her father would not return.

Her beautiful face was streaked with tears, her hair worn unbound for the first time Túrin had ever seen. It was a very yellow sort of blonde, Túrin noticed for the first time, as the Marchwarden turned to him, then said softly, “You have my condolences, my friend. And I thank you, for your song.”

Túrin nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and understood. News would come for neither of them, out of the North, of their last remaining parent. “What will you do?” he asked, though he thought he should probably say something about Dravedir. But what could he say? Should he speak of the elf-man’s worthiness or bravery? Surely if anyone knew of it, it was his daughter, and Túrin had known him for such a little amount of time.

“Do?” Ialladis firmed her mouth, and her eyes flashed. “I will kill orcs until they kill me,” she said. “As my father and mother did. That is the legacy they left me.”

_Legacy._

Ialladis had had hundreds of years to build a legacy, and might have thousands more.

How long did Túrin have, to prove himself?

His father had died or been taken at thirty-one. Túrin was more than half that already. He was tall, and strong, enough that Maethevrin had had to reinforce his practice dummies for when Túrin came to practice.

So he went to Thingol, in the morning, and declared himself a man, and was given a fine sword and mail, and the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin at last.

It was heavy. His father had rarely worn it, as much as he had loved King Fingon, claiming that he preferred to look upon his enemy with his true face. Well, Túrin liked to look upon his enemies with a sword, and be protected from their arrows and spears.

“All a Man might do,” Thingol had told him, the words still rankling in his heart as he dressed for fighting, “is assist the elf-lords in their fight against Morgoth.”

“Beren my kinsman did more,” Túrin had felt compelled to say. Why could a man not fight as well as an elf-lord? He had fought alongside elven warriors before, at Beleg’s side on the north-marches.

“You are too bold, to speak of Beren to Lúthien’s father,” Melian had told him cooly. So, he was not truly son here, if Thingol was known as the father of Lúthien only. He considered himself justly reminded, and held himself stiffly at the words. “Nor is your destiny so high.”

She had kept speaking after that. Túrin had heard her words only dimly, and mostly heard her reminding him that he was a foster, not a true child of Doriath.

That was fine. He would prove himself as a child of his own line, not of Menegroth. If Thingol and Melian wanted no part in his glory, then no part would they have.

He packed up everything he owned. There was not much. His sword, the few sets of clothing that still fit him, his harp, his mail, and the Dragon Helm, all came with him. His few other possessions, like his few books, trinkets, and keepsakes, he left behind, with a note that if he died, they might be given to the Marchwardens to do with what they would, if they would not send anyone back to Dor-Lómin and his family.

He tucked the helm under one arm, and went about saying goodbye to the few friends he had in the city. Most of them were easy enough; Mablung gave him a clap on the shoulder and a new quiver he’d been needing to send to Beleg, which went into his pack; Maethevrin gave him a dagger for his belt, and a pouch of arrowheads to send to the wardens on the north-marches, which Túrin thought meant _Beleg_ ; the servant who he had the most contact with, Galamîr, gave him a low bow, then a pair of knitted stockings, and another for Beleg. It was as if all of them had been expecting him to leave all along. Perhaps it was because he had been speaking of nothing else for weeks, or perhaps his mood had been easier to read than he’d thought.

He set out, feeling freer than he had for months, once there were no longer stone ceilings above him. His step quickened, and the fact that he had managed to slip away without Saeros or any of Thingol’s other counsellors taking note of him lightened his step, and his thoughts turned to Beleg.

Everyone who knew him liked him. Why was that? How could it be that way? It made Túrin feel oddly...not jealous, but _defensive_. Maybe it was jealousy, but of a different kind. It was not that he wished to be beloved like Beleg was, but perhaps there were quite too many people who held Beleg in their affections.

A grouse called. Túrin froze, recognizing the call, and his eyes darted around. He repeated it; it had taken nearly two years, but he’d finally managed to emulate the call, as accurately as any Marchwarden.

The call came again, and then something flickered at the corner of his eye. He turned, and saw Lírior land on the ground near him, her brown hair worn loose, in mourning. “Have you come for good, then?” she asked, one of her brows raised.

“Not for ever,” Túrin answered, hefting his pack upon his shoulder. “But for good, I hope.”

“Good.”

“Is it? Why?”

She gave him an unreadable look for a moment, and he looked away. Some of the elves were entirely too fond of eye contact. “Because he needs you.”

“He?” Túrin asked, feeling slow and dumb. Lírior fell into step next to him, unerringly choosing the same path that Túrin himself would have taken, after his long forays into the woods. “You mean Beleg?”

“Who else?”

Túrin tried to think of Beleg needing anyone. “Surely, he has lived alone a very long time.”

“Yes. And never before have I seen him...” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Sometimes, he acts as though he believes someone is beside him. I’ve never seen him this way. It puts me in mind of how I felt, when first I fought beside Ialladis.”

Túrin frowned. “What difference did it make?”

“Only...” Her eyes were unfocused, as if she were looking at something other than the wood around her. She seemed very tall, but a look down reminded him that she was walking upon the snow, not stepping through it the way he did. Without thinking, he started keeping an eye out for loose branches, picking a few up and fashioning them into snowshoes as he walked. He could be a credit to his teaching, as well as his heritage. Of that, he was determined.

“Sometimes,” Lírior continued, as though she had not trailed off, “even for an elf, the way you think of yourself changes quickly, when you meet the one who must fight beside you. It reminds me of the first time I tried the axe. I was one of Captain Mablung’s guards for a long time, did you know that?”

“No.” He had asked little of his friends in the Marchwardens, save what songs they liked best and how they might fight well together. He never knew quite how to ask the things he wished to know, though the Marchwardens were far less stuffy and self-righteous than most of the elves he’d known in Menegroth. He counted Maethevrin among their number; he had been a Marchwarden, once, and only retired to Menegroth when Thingol had need of a new smith.

“I fought with sword and spear for a hundred years, before I tried the axe.” Lírior ran a hand almost lovingly over the handle at her side. “Now I’m never parted from one. I think the Captain might have found his own weapon in you, that he relies on above all others.”

“Everybody loves him,” Túrin found himself saying, much to his annoyance. “Everyone sends him tidings, everyone has gifts for him, they all remember him to me if I’m to be going to the north-marches. With so many fine elves sending their regards, how should I stand out in his...” He fumbled for a word, then shook his head, irritated at himself for speaking, more irritated for not being able to finish his thoughts clearly.

A grouse called from the trees. In unison, Lírior and Túrin called back--and then stepped back as one, as a pair of grouses burst from the trees in front of them. Lírior laughed, and Túrin huffed. Even birds were determined to make a fool of him.

They walked in silence for a long hour at least. Finally, Túrin asked, “Ought I to say something to Ialladis? About her father?”

Slowly, Lírior shook her head. “I don’t think so. She has grown weary of condolences, where she must nod gravely and say kind words, when all she wants to do is go back to the north-marches and kill orcs, and believe that he still might come strolling out of the woods.”

Túrin felt a sudden wave of understanding, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, as if even now, an orc might burst from the wood. “I know the feeling all too well,” he said, and wondered how old he would be, before he stopped believing that Húrin Thalion would return from the dead at last.

“But do not speak to her of hope.”

Lírior’s voice cut through his own thoughts, brittle and sudden. “I know that is the way of many. Do not give her words that he will yet come, for then she will know what is next.”

“What is next?” Túrin asked, because he did not know.

Lírior grimaced. “If he has been taken by the Enemy, he might escape, yes. But those that have been thralls of Morgoth can never be as they were, and the King will not permit any such in Doriath.”

Something cold cut through Túrin’s heart. “What?” Surely, he could not have heard right. He misunderstood things, often.

“Those that escape the Enemy bear the imprint of his will in their hearts. So say the King and Queen.” Lírior brushed a strand of hair back from her face, as if surprised to find it unbound. “They are turned away at the borders, driven back into Nan Dungortheb to fight spiders for their food. The Captain, at least, tries to tell them how they might make their way to the lands that might receive them better. Nargothrond, perhaps, for King Orodreth follows Thingol’s lead in all ways save that one. Or down to the Taur-im-Duinath, where no King’s law rules.”

“The latter sounds preferable,” Túrin muttered, still stinging from being told that his only calling in life was to obey his betters, the Eldar, when it came to defeating the Shadow.

She chucked him lightly on the shoulder. “Doriath still has those that love you, Túrin, Húrin’s son. Would you have no more love of your friends, because the King will send no more messengers? What then of Beleg, and Dimbar?”

“Beleg and Dimbar have lasted long without me.”

“But--“ Lírior stopped walking for a heartbeat, then resumed, shaking her head. “Aí, I hate when it does that. I wasn’t trying to peer!”

“What?” Túrin asked, somewhat blankly.

“The Sight,” she said, somewhat grumpily. “It’s stronger, within the Girdle, even when I _wasn’t_ trying to look ahead.”

“Did you see something?” Túrin asked, frowning. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked having his future spied upon, but Lírior was a good enough elf, and couldn’t help it in any case.

“Just...a misgiving. That something will be ill, if you forsake Beleg, or Dimbar. Something of that nature.” She shook her head, and made a face. “Now I’ll be off food all day, it takes me so queer.”

She left his side late that day, making for her own goal of Amon Obel, with a word of kindness. Túrin felt oddly unwilling to tarry, and moved as fast as he might on snowshoes, feeling his heart race. Her words had awakened some strange urge in him, some conviction that he might _not_ find Beleg when he reached Dimbar, that he might find only empty lodges with no warmth inside.

Beleg? Depended on him?

_Then I must be there._

His helm was heavy. That was fine. He was strong, now. He could teach the orcs and the Sindar alike the strength that a man might bring.

On the third day, he found the lodge, opened the door, and found Beleg, fletching arrows and looking so beautiful Túrin thought his heart might do a little flip. “Túrin?” Beleg asked, and if Túrin pretended, it almost sounded delighted.

“I’ve come to abide with you and fight the war,” Túrin said, and closed the door behind him.

Beleg regarded him for a moment. Then a smile spread over his face, his grey eyes lighting like the mourning lanterns they’d lit for Dravedir. “Welcome home,” he said simply, and patted the bed beside him.


	9. The Knife and the Song

“I’ve come to abide with you and fight the war,” Túrin said the winter he turned seventeen, and moved into his lodge.

Nearly a year later, Beleg very strongly considered sending him back to Menegroth tied up in a sack.

“I warned you,” he said, and heard his voice unsteady with anger--and, he had to admit, with fear. “I told you to wait until I’d picked off their front lines.”

Túrin shrugged, then grimaced as the motion opened the gash in his chest. “I saw an opening. So I took it.”

“It wasn’t--hold _still_ \--it wasn’t an _opening_ if charging into it got you a blade under your armor. Túrin, if you don’t hold still, I will bind your hands and feet until you do.”

Túrin huffed, and subsided back on the bed they shared. It was one of Beleg’s smaller lodges, in the north of the Neldoreth, with little room for anything but a bed, a hearth, a ewer, and a series of hooks on the wall for weapons and clothing. Food storage was buried outside, kept cool in the summer and unfrozen in the winter by its depth. Currently, the plain was snowed over, beech boughs thick with heavy drifts. The snow made a soft hissing sound against the roof as it fell, but there was no wind, and the hearth kept the small room pleasantly warm.

Despite the warmth, Túrin’s skin prickled with goosebumps where Beleg touched him, first cleaning the long slash, then beginning the process of stitching it back together. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a few inches higher, it could have cut clean through your neck. Or to the side, it would have gone into your heart. Or if he’d had an axe--“

“Or if it were Morgoth himself, because then he would have stepped on my head,” Túrin said dryly, and his lips twitched. “Are you my Captain, or my nursemaid, clucking like a hen?”

“If I were your Captain, you’d listen to my orders,” Beleg snapped. To Túrin’s credit, he didn’t flinch at the needle digging into his fair skin, but he did at the anger in Beleg’s voice. “When I tell you to wait, you wait.”

“You coddle me, though. How should I make a proper leader of myself always in your shadow?”

“I don’t _coddle_ you, I form strategy based on our strengths. Some enemies are easier to kill from afar with a bow, and some must be closed with.” Beleg leaned to the side to look through his ointments, and found that his rosemary walnut oil was missing, _again_. Gwestaben had spent the night in his lodge the week before, so perhaps he had needed it for something.

“But you always wind up with more kills than me.”

“It isn’t a contest of numbers,” Beleg said, and tried to remember that Túrin was very young. “Besides, if you’re angling to surpass me in orcs killed, you’ll be hard pressed, no matter if you emptied all of Angband. I’ve been at this far longer than you.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Túrin muttered. “But still, it rankles.”

“Why? Do you begrudge the ocean for sinking more ships than you? Wanting to be greater than you were born will not make you so.”

“Will it not? Then what will?”

Beleg bound off his stitches, looking critically at the wound. It was as long as his outstretched hand, though not terribly deep. It was ugly now, but would heal well, as long as Túrin listened to his instructions. “Túrin,” he said, and knelt in front of him, taking his hands, and squeezing them. “You must be more careful. Seeing you injured is distracting for me in battle.”

“Then keep your wits about you, and look to your own quarry,” Túrin said, and Beleg nearly slapped him, but Túrin turned his face up, and his expression was dark. “You told me you dislike fighting, Beleg, except at the utmost need. I loathe it not. Let me take more of it upon myself.”

“Túrin...”

A sound echoed through the forest--a scream--and both of them stiffened at the same moment. “Stay here,” Beleg said, and Túrin ignored him immediately, tugging on his torn shirt and following Beleg outside.

They spotted the trail immediately. Even if they were not the hunters they were, their quarry was untrained and not trying to hide, clumsy as it fled. “Humans,” Beleg said, looking at the footprints.

Turin set his own foot next to one of the prints. “Children,” he said grimly.

“Stay close. They might be armed, and they will be afraid.”

Túrin raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t telling me to go back.”

“No, because you would not listen, and I dislike talking to walls,” Beleg said tartly, and set off in pursuit.

This was his highest calling, after all, to hunt his prey through the woods. The forest spoke to him, breathed to him, told him of every leaf set amiss and every stick disturbed, even if he could not have pointed them out to anyone else. Beleg followed the trail at a run, and before half an hour had passed, held up a hand, slowing to a stop. “Through here,” he said, hardly above a whisper.

Túrin lay a hand on his shoulder. “Let me go first. If they are human, they might react better to me.”

Beleg hesitated, but nodded. “I’ll be only a step behind.”

Túrin stepped forward, and held out his hands, walking through the brush into the thicket where ragged panting noises were coming from. “Hello,” he called, and Beleg thought it was a Túrin attempt at a gentle tone. “What are you doing here?”

Beleg heard a harsh gasp, and a shriek. “Stay away!” came a young woman’s voice in Taliska. Edain, then. That would make the translation easier.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” Beleg heard the confusion, the frustration in Túrin’s voice. Ever did he labor under the burden of being misunderstood by his fellows.

Beleg moved forward, out of the thicket to stand beside Túrin, and saw a woman who could have been no older than Túrin himself, with a young girl at her side, and a babe in her arms. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her skin dark, and she bore the marks of orc-whips upon her back. In her hands she clutched a crude knife, though she looked hardly strong enough to use it. “I won’t be prisoner again,” she warned, and lifted the knife, holding the point towards them.

“What need have I of a prisoner?” Túrin asked, and showed her his hands again, empty. “Where do you live? We will take you to the borders, and get you home safe.”

“Túrin,” Beleg said, his ears prickling at a sound. “Sword.”

Túrin moved with a fluidity that he only ever showed in battle, dropping his hand to his sword, his own ears pricking as he turned. Two orcs burst through the brush, and the woman screamed in rage as she brandished her knife, but they never got close enough. Belthronding thrummed, and Túrin’s sword flashed, and both orcs hit the ground, dead.

The woman slowly lowered the knife, panting, her eyes wide. “You are an elf,” she said, wondering. “But you would help me?”

“Of course he would,” said Túrin, and sheathed his sword again. “You are in the woods of the King of Doriath, and under the protection of his vassals.”

“Túrin,” Beleg cautioned, though in a different tone this time.

“What?”

The young woman turned to look up at Beleg, her eyes dark. “Have mercy,” she said, and there was something odd in her tone, something he did not like at all.

He nodded, though, and slung Belthronding onto his shoulder. “Túrin, take the child that cannot walk. We must get them to Brethil.”

“Menegroth is closer by far,” Túrin said, puzzled.

Beleg shook his head. “Brethil is where they must go, or they must leave the borders of Doriath.” He hesitated, then switched to Sindarin, knowing Túrin could understand him. “And we must keep them hidden from the other Marchwardens, or their lives are forfeit.”

“Why?” Túrin demanded. “The King is kind, is he not?”

“No. Not in this.” Beleg lifted the elder child and set her upon his hip, nodding to Túrin to help the young woman, who took his arm gladly, and leaned upon it. “Lead the way.”

“Me?” Túrin asked, for Beleg ever led, or the two of them walked astride as they journeyed through the woods.

“Aye. Show me what you’ve learned. We’ll make a lesson of it.” And thus, Beleg could keep an eye on the woman.

Beleg’s sense of unease grew and grew, with each innocent-seeming question from the young woman’s lips. She gave her name as Thala, and claimed to be of the House of Hador herself, but could make no accounting of anyone Túrin had ever met, and spoke only in the broadest terms of her capture and escape, demurring that she would not speak of sad tidings after rescue had been made. Túrin accepted this easily, and pressed her little for detail or tidings.

Beleg dropped back a few paces, just enough that he could ask the young girl in his arms without being overheard, “How far have you fled with your mother, little one?”

She looked at him, eyes wide and fearful, and whispered into his ear, “That’s not my Mama.”

Movement, out of the corner of his eye.

The crude knife flashed.

He saw Túrin stiffen, then slump back against a tree.

Screams echoed through the forest. The woman was screaming, and turned the knife upon the child in her arms.

Beleg moved quickly, when he needed to. He could not draw his bow with the little girl clinging to his back, but he needed it not. She was in a madness, but not strong. He snapped her wrist with a flick of his own, and the knife fell to the forest floor. “I’m sorry,” he told her gently, and crushed her throat with a blow from his other hand, and watched the light die in her eyes. Humans were so fragile, after all.

He dropped to his knees in front of Túrin, cupping his face with one hand, yanking at his shirt with the other. “I told you not to come with me, you _fool_ , you were already injured,” he hissed, seeing the blood pool around the gut wound. “When will you listen to me, and preserve yourself?”

“Why did she stab me?” Túrin asked, baffled and fuzzy, as if this were the only thing he could think of at the moment. His voice sounded clogged somehow, and a trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth. “Did I hurt her? Sometimes...without meaning to...I hurt...”

“She was taken by the Enemy,” Beleg said shortly, and cursed under his breath for how quickly they’d left the lodge, without pack or supplies. “Here, give me your hand. Keep pressure here, I need an herb that grows close by.”

Túrin put a hand on his, and for a moment, looked far younger than his eighteen years. “Don’t leave me,” he said, and his voice shook.

Beleg swallowed hard. “Never,” he promised, and took in a deep breath, then began to sing.

He was not one of the great singers, but any elf of Doriath could make songs that were pleasing to the ear, and he was ancient even among their number. He lay his hands upon the wound, his song a wordless one that made the stars shiver and wink in the sky for a moment, before clouds rolled across them. The power thrummed through him, something he rarely used, far older even than he, as ancient as Elbereth’s stars, or older still, since all that was had been music. That was the song he tapped into now, and the wound closed.

It was not simple to release the power. Thunder crackled overhead. The music did not want to let him go. He had done too much violence, it said, to beast and bird and creature, to the orc and the Man, to any unfortunate sighted from his Bow, to sing the Music unchallenged. _Be as one with the Music, be in peace, be in harmony_ , it sang in his ears, and a lament for the blood he had spilled filled him, until it might shatter him apart.

Beleg gritted his teeth, squeezed Túrin’s hand, and twisted himself away from it with a groan, slumping forward over Túrin’s body when he finally freed himself. He was panting, disoriented, and felt chilled to his bone marrow.

“Beleg?” he heard, a nervous question. “Beleg, answer me. Now!”

Somehow, he managed the strength to shove weakly at Túrin’s shoulder, though he could not disentangle them for his new weakness. “Stop yelling,” he mumbled.

“What did you do? Why are you ill?”

If Túrin could ask so many impertinent questions, he must be all right. The ancient power left him raw to use, and was far more like a sledgehammer than a chisel, but no one would say that a single dear friend had perished of a wound, whilst Beleg Cúthalion yet lived. _And I will live,_ he thought grimly, as he often did in extremity. _As long as I may, I will cling to life, no matter its perils, no matter its pain._

With that, he groaned, and hauled himself up to sitting, giving Túrin a brief flicker of a smile. “Next time, we’ll bring the packs,” he said, and looked with satisfaction upon the gut wound, healed to a small pink line. “Help me up. We must get the children to Brethil.”

He fixed a sign for the Marchwardens to the tree near the woman’s corpse, letting them know what had happened-- _Enemy Corrupted, body known, survivors taken--_ and whispered, “Please care for what is left, my friend,” to the immense oak tree. The great roots twisted, timbers creaking, as the corpse was dragged beneath the ground to feed next year’s spring growth.

They walked through the night, the baby in Túrin’s arms, the little girl asleep on Beleg’s back. Rain pattered down about them, but they did not stop. At one point, the babe in Túrin’s arms began to wail, and he shot a panicked look at Beleg, holding the child out like an overripe fruit.

Beleg smiled, and took the infant, letting Túrin lift the girl-child into his own arms. Beleg sang, not the music of the Before Time, but a Laiquendi song he knew of old. Even if Túrin did not know the words, he joined in, humming with his lovely voice, until the child was silent yet again.

They reached Brethil on the afternoon of the second day, when Túrin’s steps were dragging with weariness. The little girl spoke little, as Beleg gave the children into the care of his friends. Hunmir had passed away, but Gundir’s mother Lorlath was kind, and took the children to the fireside, where a wetnurse could be found.

“We can rest here for the night,” Beleg suggested quietly, leaning close to Túrin’s ear. “Or we can make for my lodge.”

They were close enough to his big lodge in Dimbar, and Túrin chose that with no reservations. It only took a few more hours, but the reward was great, as close to home as either of them called any place. They threw themselves upon the bed, both of them weary beyond measure, too tired even to eat or drink.

 _Should I speak?_ Beleg wondered. _Or wait for him to ask? For surely, he will ask._

“Why did she try to kill me?” Túrin asked, predictably. “Why could we not take her to Menegroth?”

“We couldn’t take her to Menegroth because I thought she might try to kill you,” Beleg answered dryly. “King Thingol doesn’t permit outsiders within the realm of Doriath. You know this.”

“But they were hurt. They were weak.”

“And we took them to those that would help.”

“But King Thingol is mighty!” Túrin protested, and Beleg could _hear_ his mood turning black. “All of the safety and the strength he has, and he will not share it with those who need it the most? What if it had been an elf-maiden who had been used thus? You would not have sent _her_ away to Brethil.”

“No,” Beleg responded, his eyes closed. “But if she had tried to kill you, I would have slain her, too, elf or Man or dwarf or creature.”

“...You think the hearts of Men are weak, don’t you?”

“Túrin...I am so weary. Can you scream at me in the morning?”

“Why are you weary? You were not hurt.”

“Healing you as I did...taxes me.”

Túrin was quiet, so long that Beleg slipped into sleep at last. Then he spoke, waking him again. “You looked as though something were hurting you. When you sang.”

Beleg kept his eyes stubbornly closed. Perhaps Túrin would take the hint (unlikely) or believe him asleep.

“Beleg. Beleg, what was hurting you? Are you awake?”

“I’m trying not to be,” Beleg groaned. “Haven’t you heard oft that a hunter is no healer?”

“No. And it doesn’t make any sense. You’re both.”

“I heal with needle and herb. I hunt with my spirit.”

“What difference--“

“It makes a difference, to an elf,” Beleg interrupted. “True healing comes from the _fëa_. What I do to heal is herb-lore and scholarship, not magic. Today, your wound was deep, so I did what I must do.”

“...and it hurt you.”

“Nothing I won’t recover from.” His bones still vibrated. The wailing still echoed in his ears. He would taste and smell blood and dust as long as he lived, had learned that when he was no older than Túrin, and that was long ago indeed. “As long as you let me sleep.”

Túrin fell silent. Then, he turned, and Beleg’s eyes flew open as he was suddenly gathered to Túrin’s chest, held close in a warm embrace. “Thank you,” Túrin whispered, and relaxed back onto the bed, as if he were just going to sleep like that.

Beleg’s heart thudded, It was an odd, over-sensitive sensation, blocking out the screams in his ears, and left him relaxing into sleep, healing and warm.


	10. The Herbs in the Window

Túrin found one morning, when he was rubbing his boots with oil, that he was not simply a disastrous bundle of urges wrapped in a human shell, but experiencing actual emotions.

Beleg was outside the lodge in Brethil, the largest one they kept outside of Dimbar, with extensive herb gardens in the ridges without. He was moving among them, tending and clipping, and humming a song to himself as he did. When he sang, the plants turned up their leaves, straining to be near him, to feel the brush of his touch.

That was understandable, Túrin thought. He, too, felt as if he could do nothing but strain upwards, leaning against the slightest brush of fingers, whenever Beleg passed by him.

Túrin had come to accept that. He was young, and apparently, becoming deeply, painfully, pathetically erect whenever someone touched him was just what happened, when you were human. After his first pathetic attempt to talk to the Haladrim in Brethil, he had stolen back there, once or twice, and had secret counsel with Gunmir. Gunmir had been kind when Túrin had found difficulty making himself clear, and had been blessedly blunt about what Túrin was experiencing, and how normal it was.

 _“Those feelings happen whenever someone touches you, for a few years,”_ he’d said kindly. _“Even if you don’t want them to. But they go away, for the most part. Chin up, Húrin’s son. Elves are pretty, there’s no harm in looking. It isn’t as if you’re falling in love with them.”_

He hadn’t said anything in return. Gunmir had given him a long, searching gaze, though Túrin would not meet his eyes. Then the other young man had shrugged, and said somewhat gently, _“If it’s everyone, you’re just young. If it’s just one of them, it’s probably something more.”_

Túrin hadn’t wanted to hear that, but he also hadn’t wanted to have the dreams, or the daydreams, that were getting more and more intense each time. Sometimes, they were about bodies--touching, bodies moving together, hands on him, mouths on him--and they were strange, and unsettling, and he thought that was probably all right. His skin was always too tight, and it was mortifying to have to start sleeping in smallclothes and then finding a way to secretly launder them, but he understood. This was a breeding instinct. His body was telling him it was time to find a mate, just as any young buck or hound would find himself in rut. He understood that as a woodsman, and understood that he could master those urges.

When the dreams were _not_ about sex, they were more confusing.

Sometimes he dreamed of kissing Beleg, and woke up just as wet and sticky as when he dreamed of a mouth on his cock.

Sometimes he dreamed that the two of them were sitting side by side, and Beleg was kissing his neck, and touching his thigh, and awakened with tears on his face.

Sometimes he dreamed of strangers, too, or women without faces. Once he dreamed of Lírior and Ialladas kissing and touching each _other_ , and could not look either of them in the face for a full month, though that meant sometimes his gaze wandered down to their breasts, and that was certainly worse.

Sometimes he dreamed of Sílor, and if Túrin awake was unsure what was beneath the elf’s leggings, Túrin asleep also could not decide, and that was even more confusing.

But mostly, he dreamed of Beleg, which made sense. Beleg was lovely, of course, but he was also Túrin’s constant companion and dearest friend, so it was no wonder he featured as the chief player in every disturbing dream Túrin’s sleeping mind could conjure.

Beleg sang to his plants, and Túrin looked up, their gazes meeting through the window. Some spark lit inside Túrin’s chest, and he swallowed hard.

 _To be an herb_ , he thought suddenly. _To be beneath his fingertips, yearning for a single brush--that is me now._

Túrin’s hand slipped on the boot he was weatherproofing. Beleg gave him a smile, and waved his fingers, then turned back to gathering herbs, unaware of the storm in Túrin’s mind that had been set off by that tiny motion.

 _Surely not_ , he told himself. _Surely even I am not that stupid, to fall in love with an elf._

He continued to tell himself thusly.

He charged into battle all the more fiercely, and took injuries for it, and then scoldings. It was worth it, to feel Beleg’s hands upon his skin, even if they were stitching it back together. The poisoned arrows of the orcs hurt the worst, something he apparently remarked upon with too little emotion, for that remark earned him another scolding.

But it was a scolding he received when Beleg’s soft hands were touching his arm and chest, so he endured it, and tried not to lean into the touch. He failed, and blamed the poison, looking up at Beleg searchingly, hoping to see something, something in that immortal, changeless face that might give him some hope his suit was returned.

 _Must I fetch a Silmaril?_ he wondered, grumpy at his own cowardice. To steal away the Chief of Thingol’s Marchwardens, only mere decades after the King had lost his daughter to Túrin’s own kinsman--did he dare even think of it? _If Doriath was not closed to Men before, it will certainly be now_ , he thought with weary resignation. _Who is left to steal? Mablung of the heavy hand? Good luck and the Valar’s blessing to the next enterprising young man of the House of Bëor._

A daydream took hold. In it, Túrin was unafraid, and cupped Beleg’s face in his hands, and said, “Wilt thou lay the hands of a healer upon me with no wound to mar the occasion, or must I take an orc’s spear to the mouth before you will touch my lips?”

He reworked the line a thousand times, fussing over the grammar, and how it would sound in a song. He liked the idea of starting with _wilt thou_ , but hated the sound of _thee_ , and sometimes left off the second part of the sentence altogether. Sometimes he imagined Beleg kissing him at once, after hearing his magnificent declaration. Others Beleg wept with delight to hear him speak such, and fell to his knees, and they embraced. Sometimes he imagined saying it when he was nude from the baths, and then Beleg would touch his cock, which seemed like it would be _very_ nice indeed. That thought made him steal Beleg’s rosemary walnut oil yet again, and use it to fist his cock desperately whenever Beleg left the lodge.

Once they were walking together, and Túrin was lost in his dream. Beleg touched his arm, and Túrin nearly let out a squeak at the heat that radiated through him, his mind racing wild with the possibilities--would Beleg draw him close? Were they about to kiss? Would Beleg finally tell him about the Very Secret Marchwarden Tradition of rubbing their cocks together that Túrin had half-convinced himself was real?

“Don’t be alarmed,” Beleg whispered, leaning so close Túrin felt the breath on his ear, and felt himself rock hard in his leggings. “There’s a pair of wild horses mating upon that hill, see?”

Túrin’s mouth was dry. He’d seen all manner of beasts coupling before, but never had he watched it when he was hard, or with Beleg beside him. He tried to suggest that they go a different way, but Beleg would not be turned from the route of his patrol, and Túrin could not find the words in any case, his tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth.

The mare was making little grunting, whickering sounds, her head bowed. The stallion had his teeth in her neck, his haunches rocking almost brutally against her with urgent, needy thrusts.

It was bestial and strange, and though Túrin had seen such a dozen times or more, for the first time it made his breath quicken. Ialladis and Lírior had spend the night in the lodge at Dimbar the night before, and from a few stray and somewhat blunt comments, Túrin had finally come to the realization that the two Marchwardens were wed to each other. He’d blurted it out-- _“_ Two women might? Or, at least, elf-women?”

Lírior had laughed, and Túrin had retreated into himself, but Beleg laid a hand upon his arm. _“_ Among the elves, yes,” he’d said kindly. “Or two elf-men might. As long as they wish to be wed, and join in bodily union, any two might. I know not of the customs of Men in this way, I admit.”

Túrin tried very hard, for the rest of the night, to act as if the words _Two elf-men might_ were not echoing in his thoughts so loudly it was as if someone were beating a drum against his ears. Fortunately, Beleg was nearby, and he took one look at Túrin’s face, and spoke to his two subordinates instead, turning their conversation skillfully to the side whenever any might try to draw Túrin gently into speech. He knew, when something had taken root in Túrin’s mind, and must be niggled and worried at before Túrin might speak with anyone again.

The horses finished their frantic coupling, the stallion leaving his mare with an affectionate nuzzle. _Two elf-men might._

He was not so different from an elf-man, he thought. He had seen enough of them bathing to know that they possessed the same basic shape and parts, at least. And Beleg’s shape was _beautiful_. He had seen it many times, and begun to stare recently, when the throb of _Two elf-men might_ took hold in his mind.

The daydream changed.

He dreamed as he walked in the wood, Beleg at his side. Perhaps he would stumble--he rarely stumbled through these woods any longer, now that he knew them as his own, but he might, in his imaginings--and Beleg would catch him, and they might embrace. Or no, he would be extremely brave in battle against the orcs, and Beleg would marvel at him, and say, _“Glad I am indeed that you are with me, son of Húrin.”_

And Túrin could answer handsomely, _“And thus shall I be forever, Beleg Cúthalion, shouldst thou take me.”_

 _“Take thee?”_ Beleg asked, surprised.

No, he didn’t talk like that.

 _“Take you?”_ Beleg asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief, the way they did when Túrin understood, always when he understood, for Beleg knew how poorly he reacted when he did not understand why he was being teased. _“Take you, as a stallion takes a mare?”_

Túrin’s fantasy stuttered and died in a wave of arousal. He tried it again, and this time, it was _him_ saying, _“Thus I shall be forever, Beleg Cúthalion, shouldst thou let me take thee, as a stallion takes a mare.”_

 _“Take me?”_ Beleg would ask, his fair brows raising in obvious invitation. _“Take you to bed? Or take you to wed?”_

_“For elves, is it not the same?”_

_“Then thou shalt take me to both.”_

Yes, Túrin decided. That was the way of it. He wasn’t entirely certain _how_ he might take or be taken, but Beleg said _two elf-men might_ , and that elves could only be wed if they joined in sex, so _clearly_ , it happened.

It was poor Sílor that had to bear the brunt of his stupidity. There was a massive incursion one summer’s evening, and Beleg had summoned every available Marchwarden for the battle. Somehow, Túrin had wound up with Sílor in a pair, as the tide of battle ripped friend from friend, sending the orcs screaming away from the mighty bows and blades of Doriath. Túrin saw Mablung bring down three orcs with a single slice of his axe, heard the thrum of great Belthronding, saw Gwestaben and Ialladis fight bravely through injuries, and was determined to account for the entire race of Men, if he could.

For once, he came away from the battle without a mark upon him, save the splattered blood of his enemies. Sílor had taken a spear’s thrust to the chest, and Túrin drew the elf aside into the woods, searching for a place that was not slick with blood. “Until Beleg can come near, I’ll dress the wound,” he offered.

Sílor smiled at him in thanks. “Eager to prove yourself as great as a Marchwarden in all skills? For certainly you accounted yourself well in battle today.”

Túrin nodded. “I am eager,” he said, and would have said more, but Sílor was stripping off shirt and armor, leaving bare a marred chest that Túrin suddenly realized was female, if quite toned and with only a small swelling of breast. “Oh,” he said lamely. “I--I didn’t know.”

“Know what?” the elf asked, curious.

“You, ah--I thought perhaps you were male.”

“I--oh.” Sílor laughed. “It is perhaps not so great a distinction as you may think. Ah, Túrin--can you not look at me to dress the wound after all?”

Túrin, whose eyes were currently pointed politely up at the rising moon, hunched his shoulders. “I don’t want you to think I’m making advances?”

“Túrin. Lad. Look, I’ve covered them.”

Túrin lowered his eyes, to find that Sílor had picked up a shirt, and was holding it pointedly over the swell of a pair of modest breasts. “Bandage?” the elf asked wearily, looking very unimpressed with him.

Face hot, he pulled a pot of ointment from a pocket of his coat, and began to dress the wound. “I am sorry,” he muttered, not looking her in the face. “Sometimes...it is difficult to tell.”

“As I said,” Sílor said patiently, wincing a bit at the touch of fingers in the wound, “it is perhaps not so great a distinction as you might think. I’ve spent time among the Haladrim in Brethil. You’re all very _firmly_ male or female, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Túrin said bluntly. “I cared little for such things when I was a child, and since then, I’ve dwelt in Doriath.”

“Ialladis said you were quite surprised to hear that two _elleth_ might wed,” Sílor told him, mischief twitching her lips. “Among the Haladrim, it is not unheard-of.”

“Truly?” Túrin’s eyes went wide. “I...never asked. And--and they might still--“ He fumbled for words, his face growing hot. “Make children?” he finished lamely.

She raised an eyebrow. “Despite what you’ve heard, the act of creation does not a marriage bond make. Elves may be wedded for millennia before having children, if we have them at all. Certainly I do not. But for the joining, I think it matters little to the Valar whether you put your cock in a cunt or an arse--or if they care overmuch, they at least don’t trouble us here in Beleriand, which I think is best. I might love Elbereth’s stars, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit at her feet and sing all day when there’s orcs to be slain, aye?”

Túrin’s words failed him. He pulled a roll of clean bandage out of a pouch on his belt, and dressed the wound. Sílor thanked him, and gave him a queer look, but Túrin did not answer either, drawn deeply into himself as he began to rewrite every fantasy he’d had, and plan a few new ones.


	11. The Braids from the River

It was nearly a year after that that everything changed.

Beleg pulled the window curtains open, and Túrin groaned, turning over and throwing a hand over his face. “Beleg. My friend. Why are you so cruel?”

“Injury or no injury, we have patrols,” Beleg said, and tossed Túrin a seed roll. Túrin grunted, and twisted onto his side, the bandage on his thigh stark black against the white of his thigh, peeking out from beneath his undershirt. Beleg had done a reasonably good job of mending the wound closed, but the bandage kept the pressure on, setting the healing through the night.

Túrin rolled up to his feet, muttering under his breath and rubbing at the hair on his chin, and stretched out. Then he unwrapped the bandage, revealing nothing more than a thick pucker where there had been an arrow wound the day before. “Once more, you’ve saved my life.”

“At the expense of your beauty yet again, I fear,” Beleg said, with a crooked smile. The scar joined a dozen others, from spear, poisoned arrow, or sword of the orcs, along with scars from the teeth and pincers of wolves and spiders. Túrin was valiant and strong, but prone to throwing himself into danger at the slightest opportunity, often at his own expense. The orcs would die, always, but Túrin collected more injuries than any elf Beleg had ever known. “At least the helm preserves your face.”

“That isn’t why I wear it,” Túrin said, not picking up on his humor.

They hunted orcs. Between the two of them on the far borders, very few incursions even made it to the rest of the Marchwardens in the north. Between Túrin’s quick-flashing sword and Beleg’s Belthronding, they made quick work of even the largest waves, because the woods belonged to them. Orcs were clumsy, desperate creatures, and Túrin and Beleg moved through the forests of Doriath like the stealthiest predators there were.

That evening, Beleg heard a horn’s blast--two short, one long, and two short--and answered it with the counter-sign. He hefted an orc corpse up to the pile he was creating, and added it to the one Túrin was building. “Mablung and the others will be here in an hour,” he said, and suggested as circumspectly as possible, “Shall we clean up a bit first?”

Túrin blinked at him. “You look fine,” he said, nonplussed. “Your hair is braided, your skin is clean.”

Beleg sighed. “Then let me brush your hair and clean your face,” he said, and saw Túrin flush, realizing what he meant. But when he moved to brush the hair out of Túrin’s face, the young Man flinched back from his touch.

“What is it?” Beleg asked, immediately concerned. “Are you hurt somewhere? Is it your neck?”

“It’s not my neck, don’t touch my neck,” Túrin snapped. “I’m not injured.”

“Then hold still, and let me brush your hair.”

Túrin went so still he could have been a statue. Beleg pulled out a fine silver comb, and worked through his hair, starting at the ends, working out all the kinks and snarls that he never found in his own hair. Really, he should do this more often, but it was easy to forget. Túrin’s hair snarled so much more quickly than his own, and often winced if he caught a tangle on accident.

He was not wincing now. Beleg saw a flush creeping up Túrin’s neck into his cheeks, and looked down to see--

No, he looked _up_ to see that Túrin was not meeting his eyes. How long had Túrin been taller than him, anyway?

He worked the comb gently through Túrin’s hair, watching bits of mud and leaves flake off through the fine silver teeth of the comb. “Perhaps we should make this a routine,” Beleg suggested. “I could do this for you every night.”

“No,” Túrin said shortly, and he was so tense that Beleg didn’t argue.

He finished combing, and set his fingers to the braids, crafting them in the pattern he liked best himself. “Did I tell you when we developed this sort of braiding?”

“No.”

“It was down in what we call Ossiriand now, when Denethor brought his people over the Blue Mountains, and lived free there, and mixed with my people. There’s a little rhyme my friends used to say--ah, but it’s in an older language than the one we use now,” he reflected, a bit wistful at the thought. “Let me see if I can translate it for you.”

He thought for a moment, trying to make it rhyme in Sindarin.

_“Six in a line, for mountain’s teeth,_

_Three fast together, for rivers called down,_

_Two in a join, like sword and sheath,_

_Seven atop, like the last king’s crown.”_

“Last king? There are still plenty of kings.”

“Not for the Laiquendi. After Denethor fell at Amon Ereb, they would have no other.” Beleg formed the seven small braids about the top of Túrin’s head, feeding into the river braids, and bound them off with a ribbon. “There. Now you look like a proper early Sindarin elf.”

“Wait,” Túrin said, when he started to pull back.

Beleg frowned, and held still. “What is it?”

Túrin seemed to lean against him for a moment, the flush back in his cheeks. “Your hands. They’re warm.”

Beleg cast a suspicious glance at his hands. Had he touched more than he’d intended? He had been careful, meticulously careful, not to touch in any way that might set Túrin to confusion. Who knew what a Man might be distracted by, when their blood ran high?

“Beleg,” Túrin said, and turned under his hands, until they were face to face, the tip of Túrin’s nose hovering close to his own.

And for the first time in what Beleg suspected was about five thousand years of the sun, he felt his heart quicken and thrum at the touch of another person.

_No! What?_

His skin prickled, his chest feeling tight, and a feeling of overwhelming melancholy and _desire_ coursed through him, so strong his breath caught in his throat. It would be so easy to let his hands rest on Túrin’s neck, to let them drop to his broad shoulders, to feel the pulse of Túrin’s muscles beneath his skin--

Túrin’s eyes caught his, and he saw that desire mirrored, and saw it multiply for being recognized, like a fire meeting dry kindling.

Could he?

Assuredly, he could. Both _hröa_ and _fëa_ informed him of that. Something he had thought did not exist woke inside of him, and if he had had any coherent thought, he would have wept.

 _I understand, Lady Lúthien_ , he thought, almost in a madness, as he stared into Túrin’s eyes, and knew himself lost.

“Beleg! Túrin! Well met, my friends!”

Mablung’s voice, which he had heard so often in that same strong tone, was enough to break the spell. Beleg’s head snapped around, and he waved a hand in welcome. “What news of Menegroth, my friend?” he called, and heard Túrin suck in a shaky breath behind him. His own heart pounded against his ribs, warning him that he had nearly done something he could not take back, nearly attempted to bind himself to a human in love--so soon after King Thingol lost his daughter to a mortal, Beleg would think to take his foster-son? Was he mad? Did Thingol’s ire mean nothing to him? Suppose Thingol should demand another Silmaril!

 _I would go get one_ , he realized, despairing, even as he smiled and invited Mablung into the lodge, with Túrin lingering awkwardly behind. Mablung was a dear friend to him as well, but Túrin was clearly taken in one of his queer turns, and would not speak to anyone. He was often thus, sullen and grumpy and rash, and he drank wine all night and spoke little, replying to news and questions alike with grunts and scowls.

 _And yet, I would go after a Silmaril_ , Beleg thought, and would have laughed at himself, if it was not so stupid.

But it was. For Túrin was not a daughter in a tower that he could buy with bride-price or ransom, but a young Lord of Men, who had less interest or tolerance for unions that could make no children. Inheritance and bloodline were ever prized in their matches, from what Beleg had seen.

 _And why not?_ he thought, near-hysterical at the idea, though his face showed little but pleasant amusement at some story of Mablung’s, careful control over his face something he had learned in the darkness, long before the Sundering. _For he can trace his lineage back far, to Bëor himself--nearly two hundred years! Alas, Beleg, Beleg, what have you let happen, with one who is little more than an infant? What have you let grow, in the ease and friendship between you?_

Mablung noted his odd mood, of course. The two of them had been fast friends since before they had crossed the Blue Mountains, setting their feet where none else had done so before, save the game they stalked in eager joy, running swiftly over stream and through dense woods. The others, Lírior and Ialladis, did not seem to notice anything amiss, and made a good attempt to speak to Túrin, though he answered them little.

“We come seeking a great party of orc-fiends,” Lírior said, leaning back against the door. “Thirty-six or so, come in over the River Mindeb last night. We tracked them up here, and Ialladis recognized your lodge.”

“We found them in the morning,” Túrin said, unconcerned. “They are no more.”

A hush fell over the lodge. Mablung’s gaze was sharp, tracking up to Beleg as if demanding he put the lie to this statement. “All of them?”

Beleg nodded. “They were disorganized. Túrin felled their captain early.”

“But, there were thrice a dozen, and only the two of you...”

Lírior laughed, shaking her head. “Then it is true what they say, of the strength that defends Dimbar. Cúthalion, are you showing off? I’ve never heard of you being so reckless before.”

“Beleg isn’t reckless,” Túrin said, and plucked a seed roll from his bag, unconcerned with its rather battered state as he ate. “If you’re jealous there are no more orcs, perhaps you should arise earlier in the mornings.”

Beleg tensed, wary that his friend’s careless words would give offense. But these were his friends, too, and had lived long in Doriath among the Marchwardens, and knew when they were being needled and when Túrin was simply...being Túrin.

Lírior just nodded her head, still smiling. “We see many in the south, but not so many as you must. I admit, I thought you were being punished when he sent you up here with only each other for company, to guard the entire north-marches yourselves.”

“Punished?” Túrin asked, frowning. “Had I a choice, this is where I would have asked to come.”

“ _Had_ you a choice?” Mablung asked. “Did you not?”

Túrin shrugged. “King Thingol said I might try myself upon the borders, to prove myself a man grown, worthy of my name and arms. The north is where Beleg is, so I am here.”

“Beleg, Beleg, you have more friends in Doriath than Beleg,” Mablung teased. “Come back to Menegroth with me and train with the true warriors, if you weary of having orc-blood for breakfast every morning.”

“My breakfast means little to me, as long as I can serve the enemy defeat with every meal,” Túrin said calmly, and there was a steely glint in his eye. “If King Thingol wants me elsewhere, he may command it, while I still dwell here by his grace.”

“No one is commanding you anywhere,” Mablung assured him. “Only commending your diligence and bravery. The Enemy must see Dimbar as the new Himring, don’t you think?”

“Where is my stone fortress, then?” Beleg protested. “And I have put in a request so many times. I think instead you may call us the new Hithlum--but then, I’ve been defending forests from orcs since ever one of the Noldor crossed back over sea or ice.”

“Then why aren’t there a thousand songs about you, hmm?” Ialladis teased, and Beleg tugged at her braid, mock-injured.

“Well, brat, perhaps because I leave no enemies alive to sing their fear? Or perhaps my friends, if that is what you are, are unskilled in song!”

Ialladis pouted most gratifyingly, folding muscled arms over her chest. “Perhaps if my Captain had not made _certain_ enemies, his reputation would be secure.”

“If you’re speaking of what I suspect, I rue none of it,” Beleg informed her, and Lírior laughed wickedly.

Túrin’s head came up from his seed roll. “Enemies?”

“It is no matter,” Mablung assured him.

“In Menegroth?” Túrin asked, undeterred and indignant.”Who would dare to speak ill of you?”

Beleg’s heart gave an odd lurch. He wondered how long it would persist in doing that, when Túrin looked at him as if he were something precious that must be cherished and defended. Perhaps it would kill him. “It is not so desperate as a feud,” he said with a sigh, when Lírior nudged him to speak. “Simply a mutual distaste.”

“And the reason you only come in to Menegroth once every decade,” Ialladis said.

“That isn’t true,” Túrin objected. “He used to come every few months to meet me, and take me out hunting.”

“Every decade, unless I have a reason,” Beleg amended. “He comes not to my domain, and I come not to his, though I daresay he’s thought of me little in the last several years, with new rivalries and bitter jealousies to consume him.”

“Captain Cúthalion made himself an enemy of Daeron the Bard,” Mablung said, taking pity on Túrin’s confusion. “So we might have a thousand songs of the way the Aelin-Uial falls, or the beauty of Queen Melian, but never will you hear a song of the valiance of the Warden of Dimbar, or the north-marches kept fast and proud against the Enemy.”

“And none dare to sing of the Captain in Menegroth, despite the favor that King Thingol gives him,” Lírior added, grinning. “For a stray word from Daeron might ruin a young harpist’s prospects, as quick as a blow from Captain Mablung’s spear.”

“How did you make this enemy?” Túrin asked, turning to Beleg. “For what reason does he hate you?”

Beleg raised a shoulder, but his mouth quirked. “I am unfond of some of his compositions,” he said tactfully. “And not always silent in my judgment.”

“And you told him in front of the King that he’d gotten the details of the First Battle of Beleriand wrong,” Ialladis reminded him. “And hinted, none too subtly, that it was because he was too craven to have fought.”

“But why should you stay away from Menegroth, just for this? Surely for one such as you, you could simply call him to account. It cannot be so difficult to be despised,” Túrin said, with the puzzled expression of one who has been despised, and knows it.

“Not so difficult,” Beleg agreed. “But I would rather think ill of him honestly from afar than pretend at niceties in Menegroth, and I won’t bring strife into King Thingol’s halls unlooked-for.”

Túrin nodded slowly, as if this were a matter for deep consideration and thought.

“But they say he left after the Lady Lúthien, and comes no more to Doriath,” Lírior pointed out. “Why, then, do you not come more often into the city?”

Beleg felt all eyes turn to him, and his hands spread. “I have grown accustomed to hiding my feelings from none,” he said at last, “and to my free roaming, and the company of only those I choose. Or, perhaps,” he said, to lighten the mood, “I am thinking of Captain Mablung, in my generosity.”

“I?” Mablung asked, baffled. “In what fashion?”

“Well, I Captain the scouts, and you the warriors,” Beleg said, with feigned innocence. “But should I come to Menegroth, you would be forced to make contest against me for position. And should we see who is greatest among us, you would be made sad by the result. Thus, then Thingol would be a Captain poorer.”

“You--you think you could best me, Cúthalion? You, who stood at my side upon the Anfauglith? And how long has it been since you fought with other than a bow?” Mablung cried, and the other Marchwardens laughed, and the lodge felt warm with fellowship.

But never again did Túrin consent to let Beleg comb or braid his hair, so long as they both dwelt in Dimbar.


	12. The Judgment in the Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I forgot that there were, in fact, days of the week.

Túrin should have been back by now.

Beleg awakened eleven days after Túrin had left, and felt the absence of his friend, strongly. Túrin never stayed longer in Menegroth than he had to. It was summer, and the orcs were coming thickly. Surely, Túrin was stronger than any orc, but many might overwhelm any one man, no matter how strong, and their arrows oft came unlooked-for. Could he have tried to clean out a few nests by himself, of wolves or spiders or other creatures, and been over-confident?

Nerves nagged at him. Túrin was only a day late. He could have stayed in Menegroth for several reasons.

But Túrin wouldn’t.

“Sílor,” Beleg called, and heard the soft whisper of leaves as the Marchwarden slid from the trees, landing nearly soundlessly at his side.

“Captain?”

He had not been gone too long, Beleg thought, but knew he was lying to himself. “Seek if there is news of Túrin,” he said, and turned away, that his Marchwarden might not see his frown. “I’ll pass word to the others.”

Sílor did not question his order, only vanished into the trees again. Beleg set off now, set in his purpose. He made his way swiftly through the woods; when he was set in his purpose, it was nigh impossible to stop him, no matter forest or orc or King in his way. Was it suspicion, or was it the Sight? Something bothered him, some instinct that things were not as they should be, and he _would_ have his satisfaction.

Six times, he caught the sign that another Marchwarden was nearby. Six times, he whistled them down, and bade them send and search for news of Túrin.

Six times, they returned shaking their heads.

It was as if Túrin had never left Menegroth.

“Mayhap the King requested him to stay for some reason,” Sílor suggested, but misgivings haunted Beleg yet more at that idea, and his steps turned southeast, towards the City of the Thousand Caves.

It took him two days to meet with Mablung’s patrols, defenders of the inner sanctum. “Ho, what news from Menegroth?” he asked, trying not to sound too alarmed at the way they carried themselves, grim-faced and dark.

One of them, a lad called Iûldor, would not meet his eyes. “Dark work,” he said, shaking his head. “You should hear it from the Captain.”

Beleg’s stomach sank. He was right, then. He should not have tarried even a day. Nay, he should have come with Túrin, his friend had always found it difficult to speak to those who were unkind to him.

 _And why should he endure their slings and barbs? I do not. We ask it of none of our own youth,_ he thought, fury driving his steps. It was not long before he found Mablung--he had never been able to hide from Beleg, not when they were both rangers, not now--and gripped his arm, none too gently for all his nerves. “Where is Túrin?” he asked without preamble.

“Gone.” Mablung’s face was shadowed with regret, but not the sort of sorrow Beleg would have expected, if Túrin were dead. “He is gone, forsaking all judgment and justice of the King for his crime.”

Cold and nausea threaded through Beleg, as the foundation of what he knew of his friend began to quake. “Crime?”

“Murder. Of Counsellor Saeros.”

Túrin, crying in the woods, unwilling to tell him that the King’s counsellors had been mocking his family. Túrin, who usually had nightmares about his mother’s house being beset by orcs, but who sometimes admitted in a mutter that he dreamed he was very small, and Saeros had humiliated him in front of the King. Túrin, who was always fair-handed with everyone, and never understood why any would be otherwise with him. “Murder,” he echoed dully, and did not believe it.

“The King will pronounce justice soon,” Mablung said, and shook his head wearily. “It was cruel and rash, even for a Man, Beleg. I had thought better of him.”

“Tell me.”

“Saeros was at the first fault, I grant. He was...” Mablung looked away, uncomfortable, the look of a man who had indeed noted injustice before, and rued now his failure to speak then. “You know how he would speak, when the King was not around.”

“I don’t,” Beleg responded, and folded his arms across his chest. “You know how _I_ would speak, if I heard anyone tormenting a child.”

“He’s hardly a child, he’s a man grown--“

“And how many in Menegroth spoke, when he was naught but a boy?” Beleg demanded, and if his voice cut until Mablung flinched, so much the better. “Go on. Túrin returned to the place of his upbringing and was treated cruelly. What then?”

“Saeros threw a comb at him, and spoke...ill. Of the lad’s mother.”

Beleg felt his teeth grind together. “And then?”

“Túrin threw a goblet at him.” Mablung’s mouth twitched. “If it had ended there, I would be telling you the story in laughter, rather than sorrow. His _aim_ , and that strength--Saeros was spitting teeth!”

That was indeed a nice image, but some foreboding struck through Beleg at the words. “He _didn’t_ draw his weapon in the King’s Hall,” he said, aghast.

“No, no. But...” Mablung shook his head. “We heard screaming in the woods, the next day. Túrin had stripped Saeros bare, and was jabbing him with his sword. Saeros ran, Túrin gave chase, and would not leave off, until the gorge, and...he was never among our finest jumpers.”

Beleg could hardly believe it.

No.

He _couldn’t_ believe it.

“And the King’s judgment?” he asked, hearing his own voice, oddly hollow.

Mablung looked grieved, and shook his head. “What should it be? Thingol has not yet ruled, but the last of the witnesses should be speaking today.”

“And how did it begin?” Beleg pressed. “Mablung, you know Túrin. He would not have attacked without a reason.”

“A reason?” Mablung asked, baffled. “Beyond what Saeros said?”

“A reason, a reason, why was Saeros outside the city?” Beleg heard his own voice beginning to fray, the frustration he could not help but feel when no one else bothered to look for what was obvious to him. “An elf of comfort and shelter these past five hundred years, why was he in the woods with Túrin?”

Mablung shook his head. “What should it matter? The King has heard the truth of it. What could--“

Beleg cursed--he thought it might have been one of Túrin’s favorite Taliska phrases, rubbing off on him--and turned for the wood. “Don’t let him pronounce judgment until I get back!” he called, and raced for the trees.

Beleg dared not tarry.

The King’s judgment was fair, but no one could be truly fair unless they knew the truth. Túrin might have fled, but he could be retrieved. No one could elude Beleg in the forest, once his will was set.

None of Mablung’s warriors had seen anything other than was already told. None of Beleg’s Marchwardens had been close enough to Doriath to see aught of consequence. That was all. Unless--

Could he be so lucky?

Was she still there, after all this time?

He put a hand to the trunk of an ancient tree, a birch he had known for centuries, and tended through illnesses and fires. “Do you know of a lady, who sits in you sometimes, watching?”

The tree considered. Then, querying, it showed him an image of Lúthien. _She?_

“Not she,” Beleg said, and patted it in thanks.

Then he raced up the low boughs, and began to run from tree to tree, letting out a trilling bird’s call. “Lady Nellas!” he called, when he had no reply, and in frustration, asked the trees to take up the whisper. “Lady Nellas! Our young friend has need of you!”

How long, before Thingol pronounced his judgment? Banishment, or death? Surely, he would not put his own foster-son to death.

Surely, even Thingol would not.

 _Either way_ , his thoughts whispered. _If he is banished, you will never see him again. You will never hold Dimbar with the strength of the Dragon Helm at your back. You will never coax a reluctant smile from those lips, or feel his warmth beside you in bed, or have your comforting dreams of ‘someday, perhaps.’_

_Either way, he is lost to you._

Unless he could find something.

A hesitant, trilling sound echoed back at him. For a heartbeat, he thought it was his own in a true echo. But no--it faltered upon the last note. “Lady Nellas?” he called, and heard a nervous little noise in turn.

It took him a minute to find her. No one could truly vanish from his skill in his forest. She was curled up into a ball, sitting on a branch, as flowers strained towards her, offering comfort and beauty.

“Please,” Beleg said immediately, with no time spared for pleasantries. “Forgive my haste, and my words that may make little sense. But you know of our young friend, Túrin the Man?”

She nodded, and would not look at him.

“Were you watching him the other day, when he fought with Counsellor Saeros?”

She wrapped her arms around her legs. “The lovely _ellon_ with the pretty voice and cold eyes?”

Beleg had rarely heard such an accurate description of Saeros. “Aye, he.”

She trembled, and tears filled her beautiful eyes. “I should have spoken. I was afraid.”

“Speak to me now,” he urged, and fought down the desire to shake her until she spilled her secrets. “For the sake of our young friend.”

“The Counsellor wore a shield and armor,” she said softly. “I was watching Túrin. I thought perhaps...”

Beleg waited, but she did not continue. “Yes?” he asked gently.

“...I thought perhaps he might glance up at me today, and we might...dance.” She closed her eyes, and said wistfully, “He is grown very handsome. More so even than Beren his kinsman. I have...looked upon him with great liking, though I am not so beautiful as Lúthien.”

 _Nor I,_ Beleg thought sourly, but did not linger on that unworthy thought. “Please, Lady. Tell me what you saw.”

Slowly, she told him--how Saeros had leapt upon Túrin most cowardly from behind, but Túrin had been faster. How they had fought grimly, and Túrin had bested him, proving far greater in arms. The rest, Beleg knew, and could not defend.

“Come with me to Menegroth.”

“I cannot,” she said immediately. “Stone walls all about--stone ceiling above me--stone floor with no flowers--“

“If you do not, Túrin may die.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I cannot.”

Beleg felt panic beating dully within him, and tried to soothe himself. There must still be time. There _must_. “Lady,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it, “I love Túrin most dearly, of all the creatures of Eru. He will be banished or killed if none speaks of this evil, and none know of it but you. Come with me, now.”

“I cannot!”

“Then I will carry you,” he said, and scooped her up without further ado, setting off for Menegroth.

She did not squirm or fight him. If anything, she felt like a small animal that had quite frozen in its fear at being spotted by a predator. He carried her to the edge of the city, dismayed to see how low the sun had fallen. “Walk with me now,” he said, and set her upon her feet. “I will fall to my knees and beg you, Lady Nellas. For Túrin.”

She stared at him for a long minute. Then, slowly, she extended a shaking hand to him. “For Túrin,” she whispered, and he took her hand, dashing into the caves as fast as he could, tugging the terrified maiden along with him.

_Run._

Túrin had to run.

Beleg had taught him well. No one could find him in the woods, if he did not want to be found. And he knew--Beleg would seek him.

He _thought_ Beleg would seek him.

No, he mustn’t think of Beleg. He mustn’t think of the broken body of Saeros, who had been cruel and petty and tormented Túrin for ages, but whom he had not meant to _kill_. He had killed orcs and wolves and spiders, and some raiding Easterlings who had been harder to kill than any of them.

Why could he not think _before_ he did things? Why could he not stay his hand, but only think afterwards that he should have? Why had Saeros not simply left him alone, in the hall, or the forest?

_Why did he hate me so fiercely?_

It didn’t matter. Thingol had loved Saeros dearly, and had tolerated his mockeries of Túrin since he had first come to Menegroth, ten years hence. Surely, a king as wise as Thingol could not befriend a man for centuries without knowing his heart.

So Túrin would run.

And he would not think of Beleg, who would not know where he had gone. He would not think of Beleg, who would be waiting in their lodge in Dimbar, tending his herbs and fletching his arrows. He would not think of all the times he _had_ thought before he did something, and how intelligent he was to forbid Beleg the touching of his hair, and how he would never feel it threaded into a delicate Sindarin braid again.

Worst of all-- _worst of all_ \--he would not, could not think of what would happen when he did not arrive back at the lodge. What tidings would the other Marchwardens bring? Would Beleg be angry, that he was murderer and betrayer? Of course he would be. Would he weep, that the two of them would be forever parted?

That daydream was no good. Túrin threw it aside.

He was not wrong--he was _not wrong_ , to have his satisfaction, and it was Saeros’s own fault he had fallen. But why should petty cruelty have cost Túrin his home? That was not upon Saeros’s head, but upon Thingol’s. Saeros had cost him Menegroth, but Thingol had cost him Doriath, and Beleg’s smile.

That could not be forgiven.

 _But Beleg is Beleg_ , some voice nagged at him. _Where you go, he will follow._

His mind was askew, rattled, angry at his wrongs and his own deeds, longing for the comfort of home that had been forbidden to him by both.

Beleg would follow him as far as the borders, Túrin thought. He ran as only a Marchwarden could, with full knowledge of every tree and branch, every hidden hollow and suspicious thicket, about the Mannish settlement of Brethil, knowing his footprints would be lost among those of the Haladrim’s sentries.

Even Beleg could not find him, among Men.

But--

No.

He could not stay where his grandmother’s folk had been granted to live in Doriath, for it was still too close. The King’s justice might yet find him. The King’s _In_ justice, more like, he thought bitterly, and pressed on, once more hiding his tracks. Beleg might find him with the Haladin, mightn’t he? Then he would be found, and dragged back to Menegroth--or worse, Beleg would be forced to dispatch him personally, and they would have to fight.

That daydream was worse. Fighting Beleg was nothing he should dream of, it was a horror that should never happen.

Why should he have to run? Why could he not find a place to dwell, anywhere south of Dor-Lómin itself?

Was he not a man? Was that not _good_? Was he not free?

There must be somewhere he could live, where to be a man and free was no crime. He could do something against the Enemy, even if Thingol thought him useless at best, and a criminal at worst. Thingol could think what he liked. Túrin would live by an elf-lord’s _grace_ no longer.

There was no grace left, for him.

Even Beleg would not follow him, outside of Doriath.

 _And why should that make you sad?_ he scolded himself, when his eyes would have prickled with tears. Hadn’t he known, as early as his first urges, that his suit was hopeless beyond measure? Melian was right. He was no Beren, to return with a Silmaril as bride price. He could not even keep what was his own--surely even the Dragon Helm would be given to Saeros’s family as weregild.

Fine.

He would be free, even if the Enemy’s arrows found him, rather than a gilded pet in Menegroth. The orcs had wailed, to look upon his helm. Now they would learn to scream upon looking at his face. _Just like they did at my father’s,_ he thought grimly, and quickened his steps, and hid his tracks.

Though Beleg would not follow him, out of Doriath.

Tears stung his eyes again, and he let them fall. The rain on the borders was cold. Once he passed through, even a soft autumn rain felt like the lashings of a bitter storm.

 _Now it is time for my own storm,_ he thought, and set his back to Doriath for what he knew would be the last time.


	13. The Binding in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains (non-explicit) sexual assault.

Beleg paced through the woods, and cursed silently as he went. Perhaps he should have become a Kinslayer long since, he thought savagely. Then he could have dealt with Saeros the first time he became a problem, and Daeron, too, as long as he was thinking of it. No, the idea made him ill, but he thought of it as he tracked, his eyes sweeping far and wide over the long wilderness on the other side of Brethil.

The star-fallen sword Anglachel weighed heavily upon his hip. At times, it seemed almost to murmur to him, and had its own ideas about where to strike, piercing the thick armor of the orcs whenever they came upon him in great numbers. He was skilled with a blade, but had never owned a sword with a name before, and was not certain exactly how to become as one with it, so sometimes, he spoke to it. Worse, it seemed to speak back.

_He could be hurt._

He could not think of Túrin hurt.

_He could be dead._

He _could not_ think of Túrin dead.

_He could have foresworn all fellowship with any in Doriath, and his hand could be turned against even me._

That was less troubling, he found. His heart hurt. But even if Túrin hated him, as long as he knew Túrin was safe and well, and knew himself to be no outlaw, he could handle being hated.

No. He would not think of that, either. That was faithless and unworthy of him, he thought firmly, as he crossed the River Taeglin, searching the wilds.

Weeks passed. On one snowy morning, Beleg caught sight of several branches woven together, in the pattern he’d taught Túrin to craft into snowshoes, to hide his trail. Another day, he caught a sign of shoes wrapped in cloth, to make them look like an orc’s prints. One week, he saw a spider’s corpse, and a patch of Alethsilia that had been disturbed. Once, he thought he heard a song of Doriath, and sang the next verse, but there was no reply.

The last time he’d left the forests of Doriath, it was to go to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. His own great journeys had been so long in the past, so full of joy and exploration, that they availed him little for inspiration.

Instead, he hummed a song of the Noldor that he’d heard from the old High King, though he had been High Prince at the time. Something about the young Prince had been charming enough that even Thingol had allowed him passage through Doriath, as long as he promised to go alone. For a time, Beleg had traveled with him, or let him stay over in his lodges. They had often spoke into the night, and Prince Fingon had sung him songs of travel and longing, had told him stories of...well, mostly of Lord Maedhros of Himring, in the Time Before, and in the long peace.

For the first time, Beleg thought he could understand the way Prince Fingon had sung about the crossing of the Helcaraxë. _“This isn’t the song we used to sing,”_ he’d said, laughing and tossing back gold-threaded breads. _“Just the one I used to sing to myself.”_

It was a song of yearning, of a brave bright flame, of a determined march through a bleak wasteland to an uncertain future. Beleg sang it often, in those long months of hunting his quarry. He made his way up to the ruin of Dorthonion, over Nan Dungortheb, as far east as Himlad, until he could see the ruin of Himring in the distance. For months, he tried to keep faith, that he would find Túrin yet alive.

 _And what then?_ he asked himself, huddled close beneath his cloak, alone on the plains of what had once been the Pass of Aglon. If Túrin was alive, what then? Surely, he would come back.

Anglachel was heavy on his hip, but it felt lighter when he spoke to it. He told it stories of Túrin, and of their life together. He told it stories of how being close to Túrin taught him to watch time pass, because he could not think of what would happen if he blinked and missed a year.

Melian warned him that the sword had a dark heart of a smith inside of it, and would leave him before long. It clove orc-armor as if that armor did not exist, though, and Beleg had a job to do. If he could only get to Túrin’s side once more, let him know he was safe, he was no outlaw, he was welcome to come home, Beleg would give the sword up, and they could go back to the north-marches, in as much peace as warriors like them could ever know.

Dimbar fell.

Dimbar, that he had held singlehandedly for centuries, fell to the orcs.

Dimbar, that he had left unguarded to seek his quarry, fell to the Enemy at last, and Beleg heard of it through travelers and scouts, who whispered in fear that even the north-marches of Doriath were not safe against the enemy.

If he were a minstrel, he would craft a song for Dimbar forsaken. His heart whispered to him that if he had turned back months ago, Túrin would have seen the error of his ways, surely, and would have come back to him. They could have defended Dimbar together, like the old days, and the Dragon Helm and Great Belthronding would have sent orcs scurrying in fear from the woods again. Perhaps they would have found each other there, and kindly reached for each other in the dark stillness of the wood, and might have created something pure together.

Still, he went on.

Just as his heart would have faltered and misgiven him, he heard the Woodsmen whispering of a Man who had passed through near Nivrim, tall and beautiful and almost like an elf-lord, with shining eyes and so powerfully-built he could have been none of the Eldar. The girl had been deeply shaken, had said indignantly that the man had saved her, but spoken bluntly, as if unaware of the effect of his words.

 _That is Túrin indeed_ , he thought with a sigh, and felt his heart ache.

“He was gentle when he touched me, but went with the cruel Wolf-men, and called them friends,” the young woman said, and Beleg found himself wondering where he had touched her, and whether she had felt the same sudden soft heat he felt himself over their last year together. Every brush of fingertips or shoulders had begun to make Beleg hyperaware of his friend, that awareness pulsing in him whether they were looking at each other or not. It was as if he could hear Túrin’s very heart beating, and ached to feel it against his own, with just the skin of their chests between.

It was possible. Lúthien had done it, hadn’t she? Perhaps he was no Maia’s child, but he was mighty amongst the Sindar. Perhaps it was fortune or fate, and not merely Saeros’s pointless cruelty, that had driven Túrin from Doriath; Thingol would object less to the union of his foster son if Beleg were the one to bring him back in honor, would he not?

He let himself fill the long days with daydreams. Perhaps he was not on a fruitless quest over the frozen wastes that had once been green and good, but crossing the Helcaraxë, his bow upon his back, bound for unknown lands. There were no more unknown lands for Beleg Cúthalion, not unless he were to brave the Belegaer at the end, but he could dream of it. He could picture himself arriving after his long journey, only to be told that perhaps Túrin was captive by some enemy--the Wolf Men had taken him prisoner, had forced him to be fellow with them, and only Beleg’s daring and the thrum of his bow would bring Túrin home safe into his arms. _“He fainted the first time I kissed him,”_ Prince Fingon had said, with a wicked grin.

Beleg hadn’t understood, then. He’d thought that perhaps, his destined mate was among the First who had fallen in the long eons before the Lights came, and he would never feel the unreasonable rush of blood and heat and desire and _hunger_ he’d so often heard about in songs and tales, and the dreamy gossip of his friends. He had the hunger for the hunt; that was enough. He’d had the companionship of his friends and the other Marchwardens; that had always been enough, ever since he had claimed Dimbar as his own.

Now he understood. He knew, for the first time in five thousand years of life, what it was to see someone and ache with want.

He imagined carrying Túrin away from the Wolf Men, and pressing him to the side of a broad birch tree, and kissing his dourly frowning mouth until it softened and opened beneath his. He dreamed of Túrin’s arms around his waist, Túrin’s breath against his ear, Túrin’s hands sliding over his body, and had to stop to control himself, his knees almost buckling at the heat that surged through him.

Just suppose Túrin _did_ want him, too.

_Would I let him--_

Yes. Anything.

He knew that, as surely as he knew how to string his bow. Túrin could have him any way he liked, and Beleg would be glad of it. If only Túrin could be persuaded to return to Doriath, to return to Dimbar so they could take it back from the orcs who had dared move in to the space they had left vacant.

Just as he was about to forsake the trail he had lost for another, he picked it up again. There was a cave near the forest ahead; he’d passed it before, in his long journeys, both before the founding of Doriath and in the past year, when most of Beleriand had felt the imprint of his feet in his mad quest.

He smelled the Men before he saw them, and heard them even before that. His eyes were hungry, his sense perhaps dimmed by the fact that at last, at long last, after a year’s worth of furious searching, he would lay eyes upon that face most dear to him once more.

Túrin was not there.

The disappointment nearly cleft him in two. “I will speak only to the one you call Neithan,” he said, for what could he have to say to these Men who were no better than beasts? He would have left, gone to find Túrin on his own yet again--but if he _could_ stay and let Túrin return to him, then surely, surely Túrin would see that he was a friend in truth, and would never allow harm to befall him.

The Men surrounded him, and strung him up to a tree, next to the cave he remembered. He let them. He could kill them all, of course, but they, perhaps, had kept Túrin safe. That was worth some patience. He had heard of them many times, the Gaurwaith, the Wolf Men, who raped and thieved and murdered as they pleased. Andróg he had heard of many times in his quests through Brethil and Mannish villages beyond, Andróg who had fled from the Haladrim for killing a girl he wanted, but who would not have him. He had killed many daughters of Men, it was said, and left others cursing his name as their bellies grew round.

“This is the spy that haunts our steps,” one Man said, and spat in his face.

“We should take some of our own back,” said another.

“None of that, wait for the Captain. Or it’ll be you going the way of Forweg.”

“Algund won’t hold ‘em off forever,” said one Man, leaning so close Beleg had no choice but to smell his foul breath. “What’ll we do first, eh? Brand that pretty face? Carve up that white skin? Maybe I’ll ask for some of your hair--or a finger, I’ve never made an elf scream before.”

“Nor will you,” Beleg said, and set his forehead to the tree’s bark, closing his eyes. “I have no words for any of you but Neithan.” What a stupid name.

The night was cold, and they took his cloak, unwilling that he should have even so small a blanket. Did they think he could not endure such petty discomfort? They snarled questions and accusations at him, but he had only the same words, after all. “I seek him only in love,” he tried, for if they knew Túrin, surely they would know that he loved seldom, and it meant a great deal to him. “I have the tidings of a friend for him, and for no other.”

They left him alone the first day, either uncertain what to do with him, or convinced that Túrin would still come back. He stood silently, unwilling to let himself enter even a dream-sleep. How could he, when any second, he might hear Túrin’s voice again?

“The Captain’s dead,” Andróg told him, the morning of the second day. Beleg flexed his hands in his bonds, and wondered if Andróg could tell that thought hurt him far more than any torture his small mind could devise.

Had he been too late? Had Túrin truly died, alone in the wilds, with Beleg only hours behind him?

The men sat near him, and ate noisily, as if this would make him long for food. Their sounds turned his stomach. _I could teach you about true starvation, you brief children_ , he thought, closing his eyes. _About the winter without a dawn. About the crossing of the mountains, when we had only what game we could run down. About the time before we crafted weapons, when the starlight itself seemed to nurture us. I could teach you about dry summers when there was nothing safe to drink, and icy winters when all we had to eat was snow._

“We should really make him hurt,” one of them said at least a few times a day. “Revenge, for frightening us these past weeks.”

As if Beleg Cúthalion had never been captured by orcs. As if they had never left him with cruel scars, or poured evil draughts down his throat, or split his skin with crude blades and laughed.

He had been much younger, then. He had been afraid, of what would happen to his body. Now, he only felt fear for Túrin, with one of these faithless, stinking Men where Beleg could not reach him.

The men began to speak of killing him. He would have to get free before that happened. He could, he thought, break the bonds, if he tried hard enough. Mablung had come for him, the first time, long before there was any light but the stars, but Mablung would not come now.

The fire burned low, and was not rekindled. Andróg came to him in the depths of the night, when the others were asleep, save the sentries.

“Keep quiet, if you want to live to see the Captain.”

He must.

“Don’t worry, little bee. I only want a taste of your honey. Easy, easy, no need to sting.”

He could _not_ snap his bonds. He tried.

He _tried_.

Fear trickled down the back of his spine. Andróg’s breath smelled of strong spirits.

“Don’t usually go for lads, but they say an elf-man’s close enough to one of their girls.”

“Your Captain will not be pleased, if you treat his friend thus,” he tried, but it did not work. Andróg had set his mind to evil, and would not be swayed

So Beleg clenched his jaw, and kept silent.

A Man’s breath in his ear. Nothing like he’d imagined.

“Last chance to tell me what I want to know.”

 _I will kill you one day._ “I have nothing to say, save to him, whom I love.”

“Bitch. Keep quiet, then, or everyone’ll want a turn.”

His bonds were tied too well. He should have fought when they bound him after all. Mablung would not come.

 _I am as ancient as the stars,_ Beleg thought, his eyes closed, forehead pressed against the birch. He had found Túrin beneath a tree like this, curled at the hollow. Túrin had looked so surprised, when Beleg had told him he was loved.

“There--heh, just think of something else, my little honeybee. Enjoy it, if you can’t ignore it.”

He had found elven captives that had been treated thus by Morgoth’s creatures, in the darkness of the world. He had seen madness in their eyes. Most had fled their _hröa_ soon after, by act of will or by their own blades.

“Don’t scream, or I’ll knock your teeth out. That’s no idle threat, I love the look of a toothless whore.”

Even the orcs had not gone so far.

Stars wheeled overheard. Perhaps the sun and moon would never return. Beleg had never seen the Trees, but he could not imagine that they were anything so beautiful as the stars through a forest canopy.

“Maybe we won’t kill you after all. Keep you--around--for--a while--“

 _“He was their--their plaything, for years,”_ Prince Fingon had told him, matter-of-fact while his voice trembled. He had seen the Trees, and was powerfully built, and heir to a Kingdom, but he still seemed painfully young. _“The Dark Powers, in Angband. I thought...the healers said he might die, just from being...forced, as he was. But he didn’t.”_

So he could live. Eternally, with this stain upon him. Within him.

“Damn. You deserved that. Do you good to remember it.”

He could not forget anything. He never had. Since they had first met Oromë, upon his great white steed, coming to them out of the darkness.

Andróg pulled his leggings back up when he was done, and left him cold against the tree. “Be sweet, if someone else comes to take a turn.”

Hours later, someone did. Beleg did not see who. One of the younger ones, he thought. “Captain doesn’t let us do this anymore,” the Man whispered, nervously tugging at his laces. “Sorry. I’ll only be a minute.”

He didn’t last even that long. _Túrin doesn’t let them do this anymore_ , Beleg thought, his eyes closed. He wasn’t certain whether to be glad the friend he loved had tried to raise his fellows beyond their capabilities, or horrified that Túrin had seen men capable of such and thought them not past salvation.

“You won’t tell the Captain, right? He’d be so angry...”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Beleg had none for him in any case.

They left him alone the third day, but their talk grew ugly. Andróg cast frequent glares in his direction, then looked away again, and began to speak loudly of killing him. So, even he had a conscience, though it only seemed to manifest as guilt driving him to murder. Beleg might have laughed, if he felt less cold and sick inside.

Was this really how he would end? He had lived through Amon Ereb, being swarmed by thousands of the Enemy’s creatures, and seen the last king of the Laiquendi fall. He had lived through armies of orcs and spiders and wolves, all of them hungry for his blood and flesh, and brought them down. He had lived through the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when countless other bold warriors had not. Would Beleg Cúthalion die tied to an unnamed tree, a victim of idiot children who coveted his bow? _The Children of Eru do the Enemy’s work for him_ , he thought, and choked down a laugh,

“I’m tired of it,” Andróg snarled. “If the Captain’s dead, then his friend can join him. And if he lives...well, let’s just get rid of the body fast enough that he wouldn’t notice.”

“And how’ll you explain how you come by that bow?” jeered one of the men, and Andróg cuffed him viciously.

“Captain doesn’t need to know where we _found_ it, does he?”

“But how come you get it?”

“I’m a better archer than you!”

“Squabble over the spoils later,” another man said wearily. “I’m sick of seeing that smug look on his face.”

“That’s easily fixed. Ulrad, stick the brand in the fire.”

That brought a rumble of pleasure and amusement from the men. Beleg did not let himself shudder.

He had held on for nothing, then. Túrin could not come. He refused to think _would not come_ , for if Túrin had known, he would be here.

The brand glowed red-hot in the darkness. Beleg closed his eyes. There was nothing left that he wanted to see, not the grinning faces of the men nor the tool they would use to disfigure him. The only sight he longed for was far away, or already dead without him. If he had been faster, more dedicated, a better tracker--

“Hold him still. I want it to look real clean.”

“Who cares? We’re just going to string him up and leave the body as a warning anyway.”

“Hey, I take pride in my work. Branding a spy’s also pleasure, but pleasure’s the best kind of work.”

Raucous laughter greeted that. Beleg clenched his chin. He would _not_ flinch. He could at least go to his grave with that much dignity.

“Stop! What have you got there?”

That voice.

It had been a year, perhaps more. But Beleg’s memory was perfect, and that _voice_ \--

“What have you done? You--“

“He’s a spy, Captain! Of the King of Doriath! Didn’t you say the King of Doriath was cruel and crafty, and we must be on our guard?”

“Captain, we captured him, look!”

“This is the thing that’s been hunting us! Now all the spies’ll know not to trifle with the Gaurwaith.”

Beleg didn’t dare to open his eyes. If it was _not_ Túrin, there was nothing of worth to see. If it _was_ Túrin and he condoned this behavior, his heart would break on the spot.

Strong, gentle hands were suddenly on him. He could not keep his eyes closed any longer, and opened them, and...

It was Túrin. His face was twisted in fear and self-recrimination, concern and anger alike. The expression was so conflicted and upset, so quintessentially _Túrin_ , that Beleg might have wept with relief.

Túrin’s knife flashed, first against the ropes around his ankles, then the ones binding his wrists, and Beleg found suddenly that his legs were entirely numb. He staggered, and would have fallen, but Túrin caught him, somehow much taller and stronger than Beleg had remembered.

“Everyone out of the cave,” Túrin commanded, and his voice was so dark with anger that the men drew away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Relief made Beleg mildly delirious. He sagged into Túrin’s arms, though he had little choice in the matter when his legs refused to work. Dazed, he still managed to think that an air of command sat strongly upon Túrin’s broad shoulders, and that he looked like the heir of Húrin Thalion indeed.

The world tilted as Túrin lifted him, with apparent ease. There was apparently a warm spring within the cave, and Túrin carried him to the edge of it, setting him down gently.

Beleg opened his mouth, prepared to deliver his news at last. He had rehearsed the words for so long-- _you are pardoned, you can come home, you should never have been driven off, come back with me to Dimbar forsaken--_ that he had forgotten the way Túrin never let his conversations go to plan.

Túrin’s mouth was soft on his own.

It was a gentle kiss, and hesitant, close-lipped and almost shy. Beleg’s heart thudded against his ribs.

Túrin pulled away after a moment, and brushed a hand over his face, then through his hair. “Show me where you’re hurt,” he said quietly. “And I will tend you, as best as I may.”

Beleg’s tongue felt as numb as his legs. His mind churned--had Túrin meant it as kind comfort only? Was he so lovesick he would take even that as a sign? Perhaps these Gaurwaith simply behaved in such a way? Certainly Túrin had never kissed him in Doriath, where it would have been gladly welcomed.

Túrin was staring at him. For once, Beleg could read nothing in his gaze. Had they been apart too long? He thought perhaps they had. Calm, then, and patience, and something, anything else to focus on.

He held out his wrists, raw and bruised from his struggle against the rope. “In fairness, they did not bind me over-tight,” he allowed, his voice echoing oddly in the cave, or perhaps in his own ears. “This was from struggling at the bonds, not the bonds themselves.”

Túrin looked ill. He dipped a cloth into the spring, and wiped it over the marks, tears pricking at his eyes. He was wiping a bit too firmly, but Beleg would have rather swallowed his own tongue than say so. “This is my fault,” Túrin muttered. “I didn’t realize--but that is no excuse. This is my fault. I’ll--oh, Beleg, can I ever make it right?”

His face was earnest in entreaty, eyes shining.

“Come home,” Beleg found himself saying, and before Túrin could flinch fully away, he was speaking, telling him all of what had occurred, of Mablung and Nellas, of Thingol and the Marchwardens, of Dimbar that had fallen in their absence.

Túrin was troubled, relieved, and angry by turns--mostly, Beleg thought, at himself. “I cannot leave these men. I know, they must seem rough and uncouth to you, but they are better with me, I think, and I love even the worst of them a little.”

Beleg knew who he would call the worst of them. His eyes flicked to the side, to the mouth of the cave, where Andróg sat by the fire, his face lit by the flickering orange.

“They are not so bad as they might be,” Túrin told him, almost shy. “When I joined their number, they were worse, but things are better now. They listen to me. If I leave them, who knows what they will do?”

“...I heard tell of a girl,” Beleg said carefully, not meeting Túrin’s eyes. “In a village not far from here. She said one of the men had carried her off, and that someone who looked like you slew him.”

Túrin frowned. “That was the previous Captain I slew, and now they heed me. I think I should have slain him sooner, but...Beleg, you must believe me, I thought we were simply living as free men,” he entreated, and rubbed a salve upon Beleg’s wrists, a bit too hard. He had ever been a warrior, not a healer. “I didn’t realize until then that the men had taken to such acts, fallen so far from the stations they might have held.”

“But,” Beleg persisted, dogged in his determination to hear it from Túrin’s own lips, “the sort of men that would do that to a girl, surely...” _That sort of man would do it to anyone under their power_ , he did not say, for even Túrin could not fail to notice the way his voice might quake, should he try and speak it aloud.

Túrin’s brow furrowed. “I know,” he said unhappily. “But I’ve been clear. No more capture and ransom. We defend ourselves, and we fight orcs.”

 _Capture and ransom?_ Beleg’s mouth went dry. “Of course,” he said, as Túrin wound a moderately clean bandage about one of his wrists. “Your men told you they had been capturing girls and ransoming them back to their families?”

Túrin snorted. “They didn’t have to. Isn’t it obvious? A terrible practice. Better suited to orc-work indeed.”

“Indeed,” Beleg echoed, as Túrin bandaged the other wrist.

Túrin didn’t release his hand, holding it between both of his own, still concerned. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 _Nowhere that you might bandage_ , Beleg thought, his gaze lowering for a moment as nausea swept through him. For a moment, he thought he _must_ speak of what had occurred, and thereby purge it, but fear stopped his tongue. Not fear for himself--even weak as he was, he and Túrin unbound could account for themselves even against the four dozen men of the Gaurwaith, he would wager, and certainly they could escape.

But suppose Túrin should not believe him?

Túrin wanted, badly, to think the best of these men. And he was so innocent in strange ways--had not even understood what the Wolf Men were about, with the girls they abducted. Beleg could imagine, easily, Túrin’s face contorting into disgust, and the protestation of _They would never!_

And what if he should lose, then, what he had finally found? Túrin’s hands upon his, the memory of that brief kiss--

If he should speak, and Túrin did not believe him, because he wished to think the best of his new fellows, it would break whatever was between them, even their friendship. Beleg would break it himself. He could not be disbelieved in this, not and keep any love for Túrin in his heart.

He let his eyes drop, but firmed his shoulders, and his resolve. “You arrived in time,” he assured Túrin, a lie he hoped was not a mistake. “I think they believed starving me would be crueler than torture.”

Túrin’s eyes widened, and he cursed, a sound so familiar that it tugged at the corners of Beleg’s lips. “You’re hungry, of course. Wait a moment--Ulrad! Bring food and water! The best there is in the camp!”

No one dared to speak against him. Beleg stared at Andróg’s hunched form, and wondered if he thought himself condemned.

“It’s the best we have. I’ll not let them steal from the villages.” Túrin’s chin was stubborn, proud. He had the pride of his mother’s line in too great of measure, and for a moment, Beleg could have seen Beren Erchaimon, sitting across from him.

“Come home with me,” he said again, when he had eaten, and was lying upon his bedroll, gazing up at Túrin’s profile. “To Dimbar, if not to Menegroth. I cannot leave it in the hands of the orcs.”

Túrin turned away from him. “That is not my path any more. I must live free, with my pride, as the Man I am. And--how should I run back to King Thingol now? He thought me a murderer without cause, and would have pronounced me outcast without caring what I suffered.”

“Saeros is dead,” Beleg said bluntly. “Don’t flinch, it was your own work, willing or not. Death comes for us rarely, and for the King’s Counsellors who sit safely in Menegroth, almost never. Thingol was shocked, not angry. I’ve spoken the truth of your character, Nellas has told them of Saeros’s perfidy, and Mablung has proven true, as he always has. You still have friends in Doriath, Túrin. I’ve told you of this all night, why will you not heed me?”

“You may tell me as much as you like, Beleg. Still, I will not return.”

There was space between them. Beleg wished they were in one of his smaller lodges, huddled close together for warmth, so that he might not feel quite so alien and adrift in his _hröa_.

“Túrin,” he said, and did not quite recognize his voice.

Túrin turned to him, just a silhouette in the firelit darkness. Beleg could not see his eyes. “Stay with me,” Túrin said softly. “I want you. Beside me.”

Or perhaps he had only said, _“I want you beside me.”_

“If I stayed,” he finally said, “it would be love, not wisdom, that would guide me.”

“Is that worse?”

They stared at each other for long minutes, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Something hovered between them, just below the surface. Beleg ached to voice it.

But something else lay between them, and Beleg could not step over it. He could not move past it without voicing it, and he could not voice it without losing Túrin. So Túrin could not come to him, for he felt the secret, and Beleg could not go to Túrin, and they were both too proud.

Túrin asked of Nellas. Why had she spoken for him? Why did she watch him? And Beleg’s heart felt as bruised as the insides of his thighs, for Túrin could not see the love that was offered him freely from kind hearts, but greedily clutched at what crumbs of companionship he was offered from these rough Gaurwaith.

“Perhaps Elves and Men should never meet or mingle,” he heard himself say in weary hurt, and turned onto his side to sleep.

In the morning, he shouldered his pack, fastened his cloak, and said his farewell. “Seek me in Dimbar,” he urged, though his heart misgave him at the parting, and more still at the idea of retaking their old home ground without the Dragon Helm at his side.

“And find me on Amon Rûdh,” Túrin told him stubbornly, so Beleg did not kiss him, though it was a near miss.

He had not crossed the Helcaraxë and climbed the Thangorodrim to find his beloved, after all. He had only walked in circles about burning, bleeding Beleriand, in search of a stubborn young human who had forsaken him with the other comforts of youth, choosing men who would rather befoul and injure when they saw something gentle.

Perhaps if he had not been quite so shaken, he would have known himself to be untrue to himself. Was he not Beleg Cúthalion, who obeyed no order he loathed? Was he not Chief of Thingol’s Marchwardens, who held the north-marches for centuries? Yet his heart faltered, and he turned away from the one he loved most, and felt sick with every sore step he took towards his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is using dialogue primarily from Children of Húrin (specifically in Túrin and Beleg's scene in the cave), as well as the fact that in that version, Beleg hides the "evil handling" he receives at Andróg's hands from Túrin because he is afraid Túrin won't believe him. (I could go more in-depth on why I believe this version of events is precisely what Tolkien was hinting at but that's not really necessary, I'm writing the fic lol) (ETA: I did actually write [a post about it after all.](https://nikosheba.tumblr.com/post/644941998651064320/i-just-finished-the-last-chapter-of-outlast-the) )
> 
> However, from the Lay of Túrin and Glórung the Dragon I'm taking the fact that they kiss when Túrin shows back up:
> 
> _Then Turin's heart was turned from hate,  
>  and he bade unbind Beleg the huntsman.  
> “Now fare thou free! But, of friendship aught  
> if thy heart yet holds for Hurin's son,  
> never tell thou tale that Turin thou sawst  
> an outlaw unloved from Elves and Men,  
> whom Thingol's thanes yet thirst to slay.  
> Betray not my trust or thy troth of yore!”  
> Then Beleg of the bow embraced him there-  
> he had not fared to the feast or the fall of Orgof-  
> there kissed him kindly comfort speaking:  
> “Lo! nought know I of the news thou tellest;  
> but outlawed or honoured thou ever shalt be  
> the brother of Beleg, come bliss come woe!_
> 
> I just like that they kiss in front of all the Gaurwaith I think that's a power move <3


	14. The Oath on the Mountain

Something had changed.

Dimbar was gone, overrun, and both Mablung and Thingol were staunchly against Beleg attempting to retake it. He must go back to the north-marches along Neldoreth, closer to Dor Dinen, on the other side of Doriath from Amon Rûdh. That was where he was needed, they said. He was still the Captain of the Marchwardens, and the fiercest defender of Doriath, even if his mind wandered far afield.

He had patrolled the same forest for centuries. He knew its every leaf, every small creature, every place where the snow would pile in winter. He had the companionship of his friends and fellows, and laughed when they made merry, and sang with them as they lifted their voices. It was comforting and familiar, and they were careful to remind him of how much he was needed, and how much good he was doing. He thought at times that they could tell a shadow lay upon him, either of the treatment he had received at the hands of Túrin’s friends or at the absence of his friend at his side, but they did not speak of it, and he did not volunteer.

He took the Dragon Helm from his lodge, and the lembas of Melian, and her vague counsel. There were orcs to fight. He had his home to protect, and knew he was serving his liege well.

One morning in winter, Beleg awakened early in his lodge. Ialladis and Lírior slumbered on the floor, for all that he’d offered the pair his bed. Ialladis’s hand was curled around Lírior’s waist, the two of them looking relaxed and content, even in sleep. With each soft exhalation, Lírior’s breath ruffled Ialladis’s hair.

And finally, Beleg understood.

 _“You say you did not even like your uncle,_ ” he’d said to Prince Fingon, several lifetimes of men in the past. _“And you thought his crusade was wrong. Why did you come? For adventure, for the fighting? Was Aman not all you could have wanted? Because you wished to make war on the Dark Vala, or all the Valar? What could have made you leave your home?”_

The High Prince had looked almost pitying, though still cheerful, and gazed out the window of his lodge to the east. _“My home was not in Aman any longer,”_ he had finally said, _“but sailed for Losgar in the swan-ships of the Teleri.”_

 _“Ah_ ,” Beleg had said knowingly. _“Love, then.”_ He had heard his friends speak of such for millennia. It made him wistful, sometimes, but not sad, for how could he miss what he had never had? If there was one perfect partner for every elf, he rather thought his own had been captured by Morgoth and turned to an orc in the world’s long darkness, possibly even slain by his own hand.

Until suddenly, his cozy lodge in the north-marches of Doriath was not his home any longer, one morning in winter, because Home had left Doriath forever.

Ah.

Love, then.

So Beleg Strongbow took Belthronding and Anglachel, and the Dragon Helm and the _lembas_ , and enough food and supplies even for a dozen rough men to welcome him with cheer, and threw his cloak over all of it. He left the lodge without waking his fellow Marchwardens--or rather, the two Marchwardens, he thought, almost with nostalgia already, for he felt that he would never return to Doriath or his friends.

The forests were falling to Morgoth.

Who would want to outlast the forest?

Amon Rûdh was not so far. He had thought of making his way there before, but stopped, unable to steel his heart to see Túrin surrounded by those rough Men again, calling them friend. Or perhaps fate had decreed that he would not meet Túrin again before now, when his heart was healed from their last meeting, and only love pulsed there.

King Thingol had refused, the first time Beleg had told him he would go to the Union of Maedhros to fight the Enemy. Then he had paused, and said bitterly, _“But I see that none could stop you, when you are set in your purpose.”_

That was right.

None _could_ stop him.

And he was set in his purpose, and his purpose was a certain grey-eyed Secondborn, who had done his stupid best to evade him.

_Not good enough, Túrin._

He supposed, in the end, that he would rather be an outcast and a fool with Túrin than a Captain of Doriath in respect and honor. Why? He would probably be answering that question for the rest of his days, however long or short they might be.

The idea that they _might_ be short made him quicken his steps. If he bound himself to Túrin, would the Doom of Men come for him, as they said it would for Lúthien? Would he feel mortal, as if each day mattered, each minute were a precious, fleeting thing to be cherished?

His chest was light. Old hurts mattered not at all. Old malices could be mended. Amon Rûdh was not so far after all, and Túrin had made a name for himself, though the name was not the one given to him by Morwen and Húrin Thalion. Perhaps even Neithan was a man that Beleg might love.

He found the Gaurwaith, and revealed himself, and laughed at the looks on their faces. Túrin embraced him with a glad cry, and relief shone in his grey eyes, and something else, too. The other men about the fire looked askance or were openly nervous, but Beleg had with him food and medicine and several other items that living in the rough would make needful, and they followed their Captain’s example.

And it was Túrin.

He looked older even than the last time they’d met. It looked well on him. He seemed a man in the fullness of youthful vigor, but of more strength than Beleg had ever seen, almost radiating from him.

His shoulder was broader, his eyes more piercing, his hands covered in new scars from wounds that Beleg knew he’d never treated. There was a wariness to him, but it was not turned upon Beleg, nor his own people. His muscles were larger, more defined, and his face just that smallest bit weathered. He truly looked a man, not a child, and Beleg felt his heart giddy with nerves.

Túrin made as if to refuse the _lembas_ , and Beleg sighed, for he was still Túrin, and prouder than he should have been. “It is a gift to me, though it was made with you at the heart of it,” he answered. “And if you will not take this gift, I think your fellows will not mind sharing what I’ve brought.” The thought of giving the lembas to _them_ rankled in his stomach, but if it were the only way to make Túrin see reason, he would do even that.

Túrin was quiet, then, and spoke words of regret, and called himself _churl_ and _ungrateful_ , and said softly, “You may scold me as you like, and I will accept it. In your counsel, I will now follow always, in all things save the road to Doriath.”

It sounded like an Oath, to Beleg’s ears, though it may not have been one in truth. He could wait no longer, and must know.

Then he drew Túrin off into the woods, walking lightly upon the snow as Túrin’s feet sank down deep, as they ever had. “I’ve brought your Helm,” he said, and felt no fear, for his purpose was set at last. “And a mighty sword, that we might take this bitter desert for our own, the way we will guard Dimbar no longer.”

Túrin’s eyes shone. He looked uncertain, as if he were unwilling to grasp at what was being offered, for fear it would be snatched away. “You’ve truly come to stay? Here, with me?”

“I’ve come to stay with you, wherever you are,” Beleg said, and drew Túrin close, and kissed him.

It was the first kiss he had ever pressed to another’s lips. A strong, sudden desire burst through him, enough to leave him tingling. Túrin held himself still for a moment, and Beleg moved to pull back, his heart racing, already planning to say that he had now repaid him for Túrin’s kiss upon their last meeting, and that now they were even again. Túrin would believe him.

And then Túrin’s mouth opened under his, and he let out a strangled, desperate noise, and clutched at Beleg’s tunic like a man drowning.

Heat rippled through Beleg, so intense, so strong that his knees nearly buckled. Love, too, pulsed there unrepentant, no matter the long road, no matter the strife and peril that surrounded what he had finally found, after ages in the long lonely watches of his world.

Túrin broke the kiss, but did not release his tunic, and stared down into his eyes. “What do you mean by it?” he asked, and his voice was so uncertain and wanting that Beleg could have kissed him again. “Are you my friend, as you ever were?”

“Of course,” Beleg said, and cupped Túrin’s face in his hands, hearing his breath stutter. “I will be your friend no matter your path, no matter the dangers, so long as you and I still draw breath.”

Still Túrin searched his face. “You said the elves took the swearing of Oaths very seriously.”

“We do. And I will swear to you even the most serious Oath my people have e’er heard, where even the speaking of it makes them draw breath sharply, afraid to speak.”

“But--“

Beleg pulled away, only far enough that he could draw Anglachel. Startled, Túrin drew his own sword, but after he saw Beleg was raising his aloft, did the same without flinching.

“That our vaunt and vows be not vain forever,” Beleg spoke, his voice and hand unwavering, though the words had never before been spoken in Sindarin. “Even such as they swore, those seven chieftains, an Oath let us swear that is unchanging, as Taniquetil’s towering mountain. Faith in peril, truth and friendship in arms, an Oath unbreakable. Be he friend or foe, be he foul or clean, Elf or Man or bright Vala, neither love, nor law, nor league of swords shall defend him from Beleg Cúthalion, should he strive to keep me from the side of Túrin, Húrin’s son. Thus I swear, to the everlasting void, and to Eru Illuvatar. Upon Amon Rûdh, with the mountain as witness, and the stars shall hear me, I swear it forever.”

Túrin’s eyes were wide as saucers. It seemed almost that his eyes were reflecting something other than starlight. Then his voice spoke, echoing the Oath, and his voice did not falter.

Beleg felt it, echoing in his soul. He felt the tug of the everlasting void, binding him firmly, and smiled, sheathing his sword. “That might answer part of your question,” he said.

“Part,” Túrin agreed. “But not your kiss.”

“Ah. That is easily explained,” Beleg assured him. “Did I not say love would rule me, if I returned to you, and stayed by your side?”

“Aye, and not wisdom.”

“Then it is love,” Beleg said simply, and stepped close again, as Túrin hastily sheathed his sword. “To your side I’ve cleft myself until the world’s ending, Túrin. In love, and with oath unbreakable. I confess, I have no mother nor father to give you fine jewels--“

“I care nothing for fine jewels, save that I could use them to ransom food and shelter for my men.”

“And I will be far more use than that to your men, in both my skills at the hunt and of herb-lore.” Beleg offered his hands, palms up, and Túrin took them. Some quiet heat sparked when they touched, and Beleg leaned up onto his toes, so that they were eye to eye. “I have never offered myself to anyone thus.”

“...Beleg,” Túrin said slowly, uncertainly, “you--take pity on me,” he finally burst out, squeezing Beleg’s hands. “Your words are lovely, but I would see meaning in them that you intend not, and make fool of myself. Is this some punishment, for my stubbornness? You may have it without humiliating me, only please tell me plainly what you mean. I can abide in fruitless hope no longer.”

Beleg knew his moods, and knew he was dangerously close to Túrin shutting down completely, stalking away in one of his black humors. Well, he would have to kill Beleg to get him to let go of his hands now. “Your hope, if it is the same as mine, is not fruitless,” he said, and felt Túrin’s breath hitch, so close together they stood. “I know little of how Men pledge themselves, but if Beren and Lúthien could do it--“

Túrin _did_ let go his hands, then, but only to wrap his arms around Beleg’s waist, drawing him even closer, their mouths meeting in hot, hungry need.

This, this was what kissing should be like, Beleg thought, his hands bracing on Túrin’s broad chest, hearing Túrin let out eager little grunting sounds that sent pulses of heat and _want_ through him, making him press his body up against Túrin’s, feeling it spark in ways it was learning new, as if some parts of him had lain dormant for thousands of years, only to be awakened by the son of the Three Houses of the Edain.

The moon rose, silvery light shining down about them, making the snow reflect and shine with an almost ethereal glow. Beleg had no mind to spare for its beauty.

“The others may hear us,” Túrin whispered, almost shyly. “I...know not how quiet I can be, and I would hate to have to kill all of my friends.”

Beleg grinned, and brushed a thumb over Túrin’s lower lip, seeing it kiss-swollen and knowing himself the cause. “Think you that any of them could find _me_ , when I do not want to be found? Come, Túrin, do not make me spend tonight chaste beside you around that fire’s glow, not when I have spent these last three years wishing for your body against mine.”

“Three years?” Túrin asked, and sounded injured, even though he followed Beleg through the trees, almost unconsciously employing his own skill at woodcraft to throw off pursuers. “I’ve dreamed of you for far longer.”

“Be patient with my slow start, I spent an Age believing I had no urges at all.”

“But...you do now?”

One particular urge tugged at Beleg strongly when Túrin asked, and he drew him into a wooded hollow, and made a bed of their cloaks. “I do,” he said simply.

“Just...to be very clear,” Túrin said, hands hesitating as he reached for his laces, “you _are_ saying you want me to, ah...”

Beleg stepped forward, and slid his hand down, cupping the bulge in Túrin’s leggings, making him let out a startled squawking noise. “I want you,” he said, and bent to press a kiss to Túrin’s neck, because the skin looked as though it needed it. He tasted of sweat and soot, and Beleg felt his cock fill in his leggings. “Among my people, there can be no true joining without this. If you don’t want to--“

Túrin grabbed at his wrist, hand closing over the long-healed skin where he had tended Beleg’s wounds. He held that hand in place for a moment, his eyes closed in obvious pleasure as he ground his hips forward against it. “I...I’ve never done this before,” he said, unnecessarily.

Beleg cupped and squeezed, stroking him through the soft fabric, until he _had_ to pull away, stripping off his clothing. He’d been naked in front of Túrin before, but revealing his body had never felt like an act of love. “Neither have I, but more foolish fellows than we have managed it before.”

Túrin paused, his shirt halfway off, to blink at him. “You--never?” he asked, aghast. “But you’re _ancient_ , you’re always telling me so. How can you have _never_?”

Impatient, Beleg yanked Túrin’s leggings down, forcing him to hop out of his boots, finally standing beautifully nude in the clearing. “Because the one I wanted wasn’t yet born,” he said, and then could speak no more for long minutes, as the touch of skin against his own, everywhere he could reach, threatened to drive him mad.

Túrin was on him then, as fierce as he ever was in battle, his mouth demanding, as if he would die without more kisses, more touches, grinding their bodies together. “Beleg,” he gasped out, his forehead thunking a bit ungently against Beleg’s own, Túrin’s cock rubbing urgently against his hip. The feel of it sent sparks through Beleg, his own cock hard and aching where it pressed against Túrin’s belly. “I--touch it again, please, _please_ \--“

Euphoria stole through Beleg as he wrapped his hand around Túrin’s cock, marveling at the heavy heat there, the way it filled his hand and more. He began to stroke, wondering at the look on Túrin’s face, that he was desired so strongly, that the touch of his hand could undo such a man so completely--and at the stark, visceral need that swept through him in turn.

Túrin cursed weakly, and jerked his hips forward as if he were a stag in rut, thrusting into Beleg’s hand. He made an urgent whimpering sound, overwhelmed by pleasure, and then he was spilling in hot wet pulses over Beleg’s belly. The feel of it was so sudden and bestial that Beleg gasped, feeling himself marked, claimed.

Túrin buried his face in Beleg’s hair, nuzzling into his neck, behind his ear, and whispered his name over and over, murmuring soft little noises that weren’t quite words in Sindarin or Taliska. It was so raw and affectionate that Beleg wrapped his arms around Túrin, holding him close, savoring the feeling of their chests pressed together, hearts beating in time. Túrin’s skin was rougher than an elf’s would be-- _better_ , said his soul, and he felt his _fëa_ shiver. _I’m binding you,_ he told it firmly. _Whether he can make answer of it or not._

It didn’t matter.

Not to him.

“That...we can do it again, right?” Túrin asked at last, pulling back and looking nervously into Beleg’s face. He was beautiful, an image of all the glory of Men, with eyes that shone in the moonlight. “I’ve imagined it so many times, but it’s usually a bit more graceful than that.”

Beleg rocked slowly upwards, watching Túrin’s face grow red, his eyes widening at the feel of Beleg’s length against his belly. “Tell me,” Beleg breathed, tangling his hands in Túrin’s wild hair, resolving to himself to comb and braid it later. “Tell me what you’ve imagined, and we might create it together.”

“I...I don’t want to offend,” Túrin said hesitantly, but he was distracted, and drew back onto his knees so that he could run his hands over Beleg’s body, his chest and abdomen and arms, finally letting calloused fingers brush over his swollen cock.

Beleg’s breath hitched, and he thrust his hips up, eyelids fluttering. “You won’t offend me. I’ve often thought of you, too.”

Túrin bit his lip, and seemed to sway on his knees. Beleg saw that somehow, Túrin was already hardening again, as if that thought were enough to inspire him to any act whatsoever. “Does it mean anything, to elves?” Túrin asked abruptly. “To--to be stallion or mare, in such a coupling?”

 _Don’t laugh_ , Beleg told himself firmly, and did not, which was made easier by Túrin’s rough hand working his cock, distracting him from anything but the pleasure shooting through him. “No,” he said, and saw Túrin’s face clear. “And choosing a role once means nothing for the next time. I’ve thought of you in every sense of lovemaking there is, Túrin, and--“

“I want to take you,” Túrin blurted out, his eyes screwed up with nerves. “And--and all of it, Beleg, I want--“

Beleg leaned to the side, grabbing for a pouch he’d brought with him, tied alongside his medicines. “Yes,” he said, and while it would have sounded better if his voice weren’t trembling, he thought it was at least from sheer _want_ of the Man atop him.

He found the oil he was looking for, and at the first touch of it over his cock, Túrin went suddenly still, biting his lip, eyes closed. “What?” Beleg asked. “I’ve used this on you before, you aren’t allergic, it shouldn’t hurt--“

“I’m trying not to shame myself,” Túrin said, through gritted teeth. “Your hands...undo me. And the smell...”

Beleg took a cautious sniff of the stuff. It was the rosemary walnut oil that he’d used countless times, nothing dramatic. “The smell?”

Túrin’s shoulders were tense, his cock straining erect now, flushed dark at the tip. “I used to steal it,” he admitted shyly. “To...use on myself. The smell reminds me.”

“...Well, that’s one mystery solved,” Beleg said under his breath, and drew Túrin down for a kiss, startling him out of his growing mood.

He met Túrin’s eyes, and felt something in his _fëa_ relax, a slow shiver of the soul. Túrin rarely held his eyes for more than a heartbeat, but he did now, as he braced himself on his knees. “Might I?” he asked hoarsely.

A brief shadow passed over Beleg’s mind, but it was only a reaction of the _hröa_ , after all. His _fëa_ belonged to Túrin, as it ever would. He shifted, disentangling his legs from Túrin’s, to let them wrap around his waist instead. Túrin was beautifully muscled, and the soft drag of fine hairs on his thighs made Beleg’s skin tingle with the anticipation. “Yes,” he breathed, and saw Túrin’s eyes blown with lust.

Then Túrin was moving forward, and oil or not, Beleg had to bite his lip to keep from crying out at the sudden pressure. It didn’t _hurt_ , not exactly; the pressure increased, then suddenly eased when the head breached him, and Beleg sucked in a swift breath at the intrusion. It was thick, made him feel helpless and incredibly aroused, and Túrin’s hands were gentle on his skin, moving over his chest, his sides, his thighs, up to his hair.

“It’s--so hot,” Túrin whispered, and he sounded lost. His hands were trembling now, and lingered on Beleg’s hair, as if to soothe him. “Is--is it...for you, so wonderful as it is for me?”

Beleg tried to breathe. Pleasure sparked madly through his body, lighting up parts of himself he’d never thought of as erotic. Túrin’s breath on his ear made his toes curl, and the thick cock spreading him open made his thighs tremble. He squirmed, trying to spread his legs wider to ease the _stretch_ , and arched his back, his mouth falling open as he panted for breath. It was _delicious_ , overwhelming and mind-melting, a storm of emotions and hormones all raging through him, making him feel over-sensitive, over-full, and his insides felt stuffed beyond capacity already.

The shadow, the secret, disappeared. There was only the two of them, the fall of their hair, their hands upon each other, and nothing in between.

“Yes,” Beleg groaned, and as if he’d been waiting to hear that word, Túrin’s hips snapped forward, again and again, rough and graceless and enthusiastic in a way that Beleg couldn’t _help_ but find charming, because it was quintessentially _Túrin_. He made love like he ran to battle, impatient and greedy, ambitious in his lust, but more than capable of proving himself.

Beleg had awakened in the darkness beside Cúivienen. Many of his fellows had coupled there, discreet in the starlight but innocent of shame. He remembered hearing soft gasps, seeing the slow meld of bodies together, whispered breathless kisses, and feeling as if such things were alien to him.

For him, there was a human’s rough hands in his hair, a human’s hot mouth on his neck, a human’s heavy cock working into him over and over, filling him with liquid heat in his veins with every thrust.

Beleg heard himself mumbling endearments and encouragements, even as he clung to Túrin’s back as if it were the last thing anchoring him to the world. “Túrin,” he finally groaned, and felt his body seize with ecstasy, his back arching off the cloaks, as he spilled between them in eager wet pulses.

Túrin cursed helplessly, and buried his head in Beleg’s hair, slamming in so deep Beleg’s breath all left him in a grunt. He felt the sudden deep heat of Túrin’s seed flooding him, and his exhausted cock gave a twitch of interest, letting him know that he liked the feeling very much indeed.

Túrin slumped down on top of him, heavy and graceless as only a human could be, as he had done so many times when he was younger, and too weary or injured to walk back to their lodges. He was heavier now, but Beleg cared less, tracing little patterns, leaf-shapes and cirth runes, onto Túrin’s back with his fingertips. _I am yours_ , he wrote, in the language of growing things, and _I will follow where you go_ , in the signs of the hunter.

Slowly, Túrin raised his head, and gave him such a shy smile that Beleg felt his heart about to burst. “Can we try it the other way now?” he asked, and Beleg kissed him, laughing despite his weariness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oath here is taken from the Lay...whoo boy what a choice it is, for Beleg to swear the Fëanorian Oath to Túrin!!! What!!! a choice!!!! What a great idea, surely!!!
> 
> (like dang, it's one thing if this was like...pre-Doom? Or pre-seeing-the-effects-of-the-Doom?? imagine having such huge brass balls that you've _lived through the Nirnaeth Arnoediad_ and you're like, yeah, better do THAT again.)
> 
> From the Lay: 
> 
> _“Then up sprang Beleg:  
>  “That our vaunt and our vows be not vain  
> for ever, even such as they swore,  
> those seven chieftains,  
> an oath let us swear that is unchanging  
> as Tain-Gwethil's towering mountain!”  
> Their blades were bared, as blood shining  
> in the flame of the fires while they flashed and touched.  
> As with one man's voice the words were spoken, and the oath uttered that must unrecalled  
> abide for ever, a bond of truth  
> and friendship in arms, and faith in peril.”  
> _


End file.
